


Mon Bell Ami

by shadowwalker213



Series: JUGGERNAUT [2]
Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:19:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 88
Words: 151,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowwalker213/pseuds/shadowwalker213
Summary: Sequel to "The Changeling"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published February 2005

Friendship is one mind in two bodies. -- Mencius

 

"Gentlemen, I have a new assignment for you."  
  
Hannibal looked up sharply. "I thought we said nothing new for a while." He looked over at Face, who was discussing with Frankie the finer points of safe cracking. Face, taking the side of finesse, Frankie liking explosives. They ignored Stockwell.  
  
Face had been doing pretty well, all things considered. There were still too many times when something would be said and he'd get a completely blank look on his face. That would be followed by an embarrassed silence, which Face would try to laugh away. But everyone knew it bothered him. On the last mission, Hannibal had found himself double-checking, making sure Face remembered not only things that he had assumed Face knew, but that he remembered what he had just been told. It wasn't good for either of them.  
  
"I know that, Colonel, but this can't wait. And it's important that the Team handle it. As per our agreement..."  
  
Hannibal sighed with deep annoyance. If Stockwell brought up that damned pardon one more time...  
  
"All right, Stockwell, let me get the guys and you can drop this new emergency on us."  
  
*****  
  
Murdock arrived a few minutes after the rest of the guys had arranged themselves in the living room. He was still wearing his newest uniform, a dark green shirt proudly proclaiming "Hill's Nursery" across the back. He was not happy.  
  
"General, how do you expect me to maintain my new lifestyle if, every time I get the hang of things, you come in and pull me off the job to run another mission?"  
  
"If you're having problems, Captain, I suggest you go back to LA, where you were supposed to be anyway."  
  
Murdock made a face at Stockwell's back as he stepped into the living room and flopped unceremoniously down next to Frankie, who gave him sympathetic smile. Face, on Murdock's other side, had to think fast as to why Murdock was supposed to be in LA; one of those things he'd been told but hadn't actually remembered. All he remembered was something about dogs...  
  
Hannibal caught the flash of uncertainty on his lieutenant's face but let it go. If it were something important, he knew Face would seek him out later and ask about it. That in itself was a change. Normally, Face would never talk to Hannibal about anything that made him appear a liability to the team. He would either work it out for himself or get help from Murdock or even BA. Now, it was Hannibal, and Hannibal alone, that Face turned to.  
  
Hannibal absent-mindedly took one of the envelopes Carla was handing out. That Face was putting on such a facade for the others told of just another problem that had not been resolved - trust. Even though Face came to him for his questions, it was more because Hannibal had told him over and over that he could and it wouldn't be held against him later. He would not go to the others. Hannibal had asked him about it once, and hadn't liked the response.  
  
"If they have doubts about my ability to do the job, it's much easier to..." There he had stopped, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"Much easier to what, Face?"  
  
The answer was almost mechanical. "Liabilities have to be...reduced..." He'd stopped again, hurried on. "I know that's not the way it is here, Hannibal. I know that...intellectually...but..."  
  
"Okay, Face. As long as you know it 'intellectually', we'll work on the other as we go." Hannibal wondered then, and many times after that, how long it would take before the trust that had taken so long to build in the first place would be rebuilt. And how many problems it might cause in the meantime...  
  
*****  
  
"This will be a retrieval mission, gentlemen." Stockwell looked from one man to the next, gauging their reactions. As expected, they ranged from bored to resigned. Except for Peck. He was totally without expression, simply waiting for the information. Interesting. "Some very delicate files were on their way to the United States from one of our, shall we say, less than friendly neighbors to the East. The courier was found dead in Miami, and no trace was found of the files.  
  
"A few days after the disappearance, the person for whom these files were intended received a phone call. Very short, very succinct. One million dollars to be paid into a Swiss bank account, by a given date, in exchange for the files."  
  
"And the money was paid into the account, which was immediately transferred to...what, the Caymans? And no files." Face looked up at Stockwell. He had not even opened his envelope yet.  
  
"Exactly, Lieutenant. The job of the Team is to find those files."  
  
"Don't suppose you have a location in mind?" Hannibal pulled out a cigar and casually lit it, knowing the Ables would complain as soon as they came back in.  
  
"Actually, we were able to trace the call." Hannibal raised his eyebrows in surprise. That was pretty amateurish of the thief. "It was a public phone, and the receiver had deliberately been left off the hook. There was also a little note left." Stockwell pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Hannibal. It said, "Gotcha!"  
  
Hannibal grinned as he passed it along to the rest of the Team. Neither Stockwell nor Carla thought it that funny.  
  
"And this public phone was where, General?" Hannibal continued to grin as he puffed away. His respect for their new adversary had grown.  
  
"A little town in Florida." Stockwell looked over to Carla.  
  
"Belle Glade, General."  
  
"Hey, watch it, Face!" Murdock jumped up, wiping the beer from his jeans as Face hastily retrieved both the bottle and the note from the floor.  
  
It didn't escape Hannibal's notice that Face had turned just a shade pale, or that as soon as he'd straightened up, he'd stared right at Carla. And Carla had that now familiar shit-eating smile on her face.  
  
*****  
  
The Team spent the next half hour going over the details with Stockwell, what little he had. A list of known political extremists who could have known about the transfer, people from the country where the files had originally been stolen from, and various local thugs. None of them seemed to fit the personality of the thief, to Hannibal's thinking.  
  
Stockwell and Carla left shortly thereafter, and again, Hannibal noted that Face had made a surreptitious, and unsuccessful, attempt to pull Carla to one side before she walked out. There was something the two of them knew and Hannibal intended to join the club.  
  
Face, meanwhile, had managed to slip away from the house unnoticed. He desperately needed time to himself, to think. Hannibal and the rest of the Team didn't know about Belle Glade. Not that he, or anyone else for that matter, had deliberately not told them. It just hadn't come up. Not too much about the time before California had. At first, Face had been in no shape to talk about any of it. Later, no one asked. And that had started the real problems.  
  
Not that he blamed them. Not really. They were so concerned about getting his memories back, they had concentrated only on that. Even after he started seeing that psych, they hadn't talked about anything other than his 'old' life. Once he was back in Langley, it was as though he'd lost everything else as well. No one seemed to care that he had lost more than his memory. He'd lost everything he had thought was his life.  
  
Oh, they were sympathetic when he'd wonder what had happened to all of them afterward, but no one asked what they had done, where they had been, what it had been like. He even tried to talk about some of the things they'd done, like going to Loring Park, but it seemed to make everyone else uncomfortable, so he'd quit.  
  
The worst part was having to be nice to Carla, because Carla was the only one who knew, who really knew, what had happened. And she wouldn't tell him where any one was now. Just kept saying they were well, and that he should just get on with his life, like they were. As if it were that easy. Suddenly thrust in with a bunch of strangers who were supposedly as close as family to him. Being watched and pitied and 'encouraged'...like he was getting over some dread disease, instead of having lost...hell, say it, instead of having just lost his best friend.  
  
And then he'd looked at that note, and recognized the handwriting. Immediately. And heard the name, Belle Glade.  
  
It had to be him. And Carla knew it...


	2. Chapter 2

BA and Frankie had already gone to their rooms to start packing. Murdock was sitting on the couch, a scowl on his face. Hannibal wanted to find Face and have a talk with him, but decided to take care of Murdock first.  
  
"Problem, Captain?"  
  
Murdock tossed a none-existent something to the floor and sighed.  
  
"I just really liked this new job, Hannibal. And I was good at it. But I'm gonna lose it now..."  
  
"You don't have to go, Murdock." Hannibal sat down beside him. "You're not under the gun like the rest of us. It's your choice. And no one, no one would blame you if you said enough's enough. After all these years, we've all had at least a semblance of a normal life. All of us except you. Maybe now it's your turn."  
  
"Hannibal, I can't do that. I like my job, and I like having my own place and all, but...geez, it would be so boring...I gotta be around you guys to really, really feel alive, y'know? I just wish Stockwell would be a little more...convenient."  
  
Hannibal chuckled. "I know, he's not real concerned about our private lives. Well, guess we'll all just have to be patient for a while longer. Once we get our pardons, then we'll all be making some changes. In the meantime, I'm glad you're on board, Captain."  
  
Leaving Murdock to curse Stockwell's future generations, Hannibal went outside and began looking for Face. Somehow he didn't think this conversation would be concluded so easily.  
  
*****  
  
Face was so deep in thought he almost didn't hear the footfall behind him. Almost. He whipped around, pistol in hand, relaxing when he saw Hannibal.  
  
"I thought we talked about that, Face." The Colonel wasn't happy.  
  
"I thought you were going to give me some warning," he snapped back. He immediately regretted it. That wasn't the way you talked to your superior officer. "Sorry, Hannibal. I'll work on it."  
  
Hannibal just looked at him and then sat down on the lounge chair next to him. He didn't say anything for a while, just pulled out a cigar and waited. Face belatedly pulled out the lighter for him. Another dumb thing he had to remember. Why the hell couldn't the man light his own cigar? Inwardly he took a deep breath. To the old Face, it was just a habit, another thing the 'new' Face had to develop.  
  
"Something about this mission that bothers you, Lieutenant?"  
  
"No, why should it?"  
  
"You're not in the habit of dropping your beer, for one thing. Nor of going for a walk instead of getting ready for the job."  
  
Shit. Hannibal never missed anything.  
  
"Hey, the beer was just an accident, Hannibal. Don't make a big deal out of it."  
  
"And the walk? You'd normally be figuring out what we were going to need for this job, not wandering around with your head in the clouds."  
  
"In case you hadn't noticed, a lot of things aren't 'normal' any more." The best defense was a good offense. "This is a habit I picked up while I was gone, okay? Taking a little time to ground myself before hand. If I'd done this on those other jobs, maybe they would have gone a little smoother."  
  
"I thought maybe you were trying to figure out how to get in touch with Carla."  
  
"Carla? What the hell for? She never tells me anything anyway. You know that."  
  
Hannibal wasn't quite satisfied, and Face knew he had to keep just the right look on his face or Hannibal would know there was more to it. He also knew not to be the first to speak.  
  
Hannibal sighed and looked away. "Okay, Face, if that's the way you want it. You've got an hour to finish your 'grounding' and get ready to go." He stalked away to the house.  
  
It wasn't really the way Face wanted it. Face wanted to be able to tell the Colonel everything he suspected, everything he knew. But it was the Team's job to take down the thief. It was Face's job to protect him.  
  
That's what they had always done for each other.  
  
*****  
  
"I've never known Peck to be clumsy, have you, Carla?" Stockwell was casually watching the scenery pass by the limo windows.  
  
"No, General, I hadn't really noticed that before."  
  
"What do you suppose caused that little reaction? Hmm?"  
  
"He was sitting next to Captain Murdock. That in itself would rattle most people."  
  
"Ahh, but that shouldn't bother the lieutenant. He's known Murdock for years."  
  
"The 'original' lieutenant did, sir. This one is still getting used to him."  
  
"Point taken, Carla." He continued to peruse the view. "I supposed we should be expecting any number of surprises from him. At least until his memory fully returns."  
  
"I would say so, yes, General."  
  
Stockwell chuckled. "That should make things very interesting. For everyone."  
  
Carla smiled in turn. Interesting was not the word she was thinking of.  
  
*****  
  
He was watching out of the apartment window. He wasn't expecting anyone, not yet, but he kept a close watch, just in case. He'd learned the hard lessons of getting complacent. It wouldn't happen again. Which didn't preclude having a little fun along the way. Like that note. He smiled at that.  
  
He figured Stockwell would have the famous A-Team on his tail within another day or so. It would take that bitch that long to persuade him that they were the only ones who could handle this job. He wondered if she would tell him about the real connection to Belle Glade, or keep that as one of her many little secrets. Probably keep it to herself. Never tell too many too much. But she would find some reason to use the Team. He'd known that from the start. Because of Face.  
  
Face. It had taken him a long time to find him again. Carla had done everything she could to keep him from finding out. But there were files, and where there were files, there were ways of accessing them. And finally he'd found the right ones. Face. It had taken some effort to use that name instead of the one he knew. But he did. When they met up again, he didn't want to confuse things for either of them. If that was the name his friend had used, was using, then that's what he would call him. And they would definitely meet up again. Because of Carla.  
  
Carla really was a vengeful kind of person. She didn't like the idea of his being 'the one that got away'. After all she had done for him. He should feel truly ungrateful for slipping away at the first opportunity. Yeah, right. Promises of bringing back his memory, helping him get back to his people again, just like they were doing for Face. And he'd gone along with it...for a while. He'd started remembering things alright. And that's where Carla's little plans had gotten fucked up.  
  
He'd started making his own plans, but they hadn't really gelled until he found out about his people, his friends. The ones he'd always wanted to go back to, just as Face had been wanting his. And found out they were all dead. He'd gone all this time thinking he had someone waiting for him, only to find out they had gone just before the whole experiment had started. Which was why he was chosen. Because they knew he had no one. And that's why Carla had thought she could hold him. Because, after all, what else did he have?  
  
She hadn't counted on Face. Hadn't counted on the fact that he knew Face would not abandon him, nor he, Face. Had seriously underestimated the bond the two men had formed.  
  
I took care of him; he took care of me. Always. Always in that life, anyway. And, like himself, he knew his friend was fitting into his 'old' life with as much ease as a turtle on his back. The re-integration had gone to two extremes, both equally guaranteed to fail. Taking two men who had learned to rely exclusively on each other, who believed they had only the other; throwing one into a gang of men he didn't remember, the other into a void with no one to turn to. Neither would be happy with their situation. Both would miss their other half. The certainties of that connection. And eventually they would both make the move to reunite.  
  
He just happened to have gone first.  
  
It had been a twist of fate that he'd learned of these files being transferred. Good luck for him, bad luck for the courier. If he'd been a few minutes earlier, the guy would still be alive; but, that was hardly his problem. He'd interrupted things in time to grab the prize for himself, which was all he really cared about. And now he sat with mega-bucks in a secret account, and the prize within easy reach when he needed it. The prize Stockwell wanted, anyway.  
  
His prize would be on his way in another day or so.


	3. Chapter 3

They had gone directly to Belle Glade, to the neighborhood where the phone booth was located. There would be nothing left there now, of course, but Hannibal wanted to get a look at the area. He had a feeling their guy was still around, somewhere. That little scam with the money wasn't the objective. There was something else this guy was after.  
  
Face stepped out of the van nervously. Kept on a mask of calm curiosity, but he was like a wound spring inside. He didn't want to look across the street. He knew exactly what was over there. A small cafe with a suspicious waitress. Who would probably remember two bums who had caused a ruckus there, but who wouldn't recognize either of them now.  
  
"Face?"  
  
He jumped, pulling himself back to reality. The others were staring at him. Again. Hannibal didn't look happy. Again. Damn.  
  
He tried to sound casual. "What?"  
  
"If we're not boring you, we were just discussing whether or not this guy would still be around here or not. What do you think?" Hannibal kept looking at him, with 'that' look.  
  
Face looked around as if he was really thinking about it. He knew. They were probably being watched right now. That note had been left for Stockwell to find, meant for Face to understand. He was here.  
  
"No, I don't think so, Hannibal. This guy just dumped a million in his bank account. He's going to want to enjoy it. And it wouldn't be here."  
  
Hannibal hesitated just a moment. "Mmm, you're probably right. Well, we'll nose around a little, see if anyone noticed someone who didn't belong. There's a hotel up the street. Why don't you get us a couple rooms, Face? We'll meet you there in a few minutes."  
  
Relieved to get away from the Colonel's scrutiny, Face nodded and hurried up the street. It took only a few moments with the young, and very feminine, desk clerk, to get them a suite for the price Stockwell had allocated for two doubles. Face had wondered at the sudden frugality on Stockwell's part. Wasn't like him to worry that much about expenses. Only the outlandish ones.  
  
Glancing out the door to make sure the guys weren't coming in yet, he made one more request. He had just concluded that business when the Team walked in. Smiling, he led them to the elevator and up to their new accommodations.  
  
Looking around the spaciousness, Hannibal grinned. "Some things you never forget, huh, Face?"  
  
"You are so right, Colonel."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal called Stockwell shortly after they settled into the suite. When he hung up, he had a sparkle in his eye.  
  
"Stockwell got a phone call earlier, from the guy who was supposed to get those files. Seems the thief has another deal in mind. When he was reminded that he'd already been paid, the guy told him that was only the down payment. And once again, they were able to trace the call. Came from a phone booth on the other side of town. No note this time, though." He looked over at Face. "Seems our friend is still around, after all, Face."  
  
"Possibly. Or a confederate. I mean, you did consider the possibility that there's more than one person involved in this, didn't you, Colonel?"  
  
The sparkle in Hannibal's eyes got just a tad steely. "Yes, Face, I took that into consideration."  
  
Face smiled, careful not to react to the challenge. "Never underestimate the enemy, huh, Hannibal?"  
  
"I never do, Face. I never do."  
  
*****  
  
The clerk at the front desk heard the front door open and sighed. It had been a busy day and she was wishing she could take a break. She looked up expectantly and was immediately drawn to a pair of eyes that would put Harrison Ford to shame. Two in one day? She should definitely have taken her uncle up on this job sooner...  
  
"Hi. I was wondering if I could leave a message for one of your guests."  
  
"Sure, I can get it to them for you." She smiled her sexiest smile.  
  
He matched her smile and she damn near went through the floor. Then he handed her an envelope. She never looked at it.  
  
"I'll make sure they get it, Mister..."  
  
"Thanks, sweetheart." He winked at her and abruptly turned and walked out.  
  
She watched, fascinated, until he disappeared from view. Only then did she look at the envelope. Oh, wow. They knew each other...how weird...  
  
*****  
  
The phone in the room rang and Murdock scooped it up.  
  
"Wally's Bar and Grill."  
  
"Excuse me? I was calling room 420."  
  
"I'm sorry, little lady, this is 520." He hung up a moment later.  
  
"Who was that, Murdock?" Hannibal looked up from the couch, where he and BA were watching a soccer game.  
  
"Some gal, got the wrong room." He joined them on the couch, and was soon engrossed in the game.  
  
Face had been listening from the bedroom door. He could feel his heartbeat quicken. Of course, there was always a chance it really was a wrong number, but he didn't think so. Way too coincidental. Part of him wanted to race down to the desk and collect whatever it was that had been left for him; the other part knew he would have to take his time, make it casual, or Hannibal would know without doubt that something was going on.  
  
He carefully closed the bedroom door, leaned back against it. Why was he even doing this? He knew he should tell Hannibal everything. He knew he should be doing everything he could to bring this job to a successful end. He knew his first loyalty was with the Team.  
  
He knew it, but he didn't feel it. Damn.  
  
He sighed, moved to stand in front of the window. He stared down at the street, half-hoping he would catch a glimpse of him, knowing he wouldn't. Sometimes he got so mixed up, memories coming back about the men in the other room, colliding with what he had believed to be reality. And then he'd go to Hannibal to get it straight, relying on the Colonel's promise that it wouldn't affect his standing with the team. But it had. The last job, Hannibal had almost babysat Face. Acted like he wasn't even as competent as Santana.  
  
That was really when Face knew that this was not going to work. It was like trying to put the proverbial square peg in a round hole. At first, he'd wanted it to work, badly. And he did whatever he could, whatever he was told, to make it work. But even though he'd remember things, it was like watching an old movie. Just characters on a screen. It wasn't real to him. He had never gotten that connection back. And he didn't believe he ever would.  
  
Now he had a chance to get back what he'd lost. And he wasn't going to screw it up...not for anyone.  
  
*****  
  
He'd gone directly to his car after leaving the hotel and headed for his new digs. A far cry from a cardboard box. He smiled bitterly at that thought. Crazy as it may be, he really wished they could go back to those days. When all they had to worry about was that day, that hour. Sure, there'd been days when they'd gone hungry, when they were cold, wet. But those problems seemed minuscule to the ones now. All the scheming and hiding...  
  
That would be over soon. Stockwell probably thought it was over once Barish was gone, but he had no idea. Stockwell...and Carla. Thinking they had everyone where they wanted them again. Thinking they were in control. Until he'd gotten away. That upset the applecart. Created all kinds of upset.  
  
They hadn't seen anything yet.  
  
*****  
  
Face had his chance later that evening. They were on their way out to find a restaurant for supper. Half a block from the hotel, Face pulled up short.  
  
"Hey, you guys go ahead. I left my wallet back in the room."  
  
"You won't need it, Face. Stockwell's picking up the tab." Hannibal hadn't thought he'd have to remind Face of that.  
  
"I know, but I just feel better having it on me. You guys go ahead, I'll catch up." Without another word, he turned and hurried back toward the hotel.  
  
"Something wrong, Colonel?" Murdock had noticed the frown on Hannibal's face. He turned and looked back at Face, already turning into the hotel.  
  
"I'm not sure, Murdock. Something's not right, but I don't know what."  
  
"Something about Face, Johnny?"  
  
"What makes you say that, Frankie?"  
  
"Well, it's just he's not really with us yet, y'know? I dunno. Maybe he shouldn't have come with us on this one."  
  
"Face is part of the team, Frankie. Don't you forget that. We'll watch his back." BA scowled hard at Frankie, making the other man back away a step.  
  
"Hey, no offense, BA. Really. It's just..."  
  
"All right, enough." Hannibal put up placating hands. "Face can handle this. I never said he couldn't. This whole job just doesn't smell right. C'mon, let's go."  
  
He didn't want the team fighting among themselves, but he agreed with Frankie for once. He never should have brought Face on this one. Not until he knew what was going on between him and Carla.  
  
*****  
  
The clerk smiled brightly when she saw Face coming back in the door. He strode quickly up to the desk, flashing her a brilliant smile.  
  
"Did I do that right, Mr. Hamilton?"  
  
"Perfect, Lisa. Absolutely perfect. My friends will never expect the surprise." He took the envelope she handed him, forcing his hand not to shake.  
  
He hurried into the lobby and found a chair in the far corner. He held his breath as he carefully tore open the envelope. There was a note, in the same, familiar handwriting.  
  
"Good to see you again, buddy. Time's not right yet, but I'll see you soon. Be ready."  
  
Face smiled. 'Be ready.' As if he hadn't been ready for a long time...


	4. Chapter 4

When Face joined them at the restaurant, Hannibal noticed that Face seemed less tense, more... cheerful? Definitely upbeat. He actually joined in freely with discussions about what the thief would be asking for next. Of course, it was all wild speculation, since the guy seemed to be working on some agenda of his own, and not working for any particular country.  
  
It would help, of course, if they knew just what was in those files. But Stockwell steadfastly refused to divulge that. "Need to know", again. Hannibal really got tired of hearing that crap. He would have to push the General on that. If they had no idea what the files were, they had no idea just how far this guy was willing to go, what his ultimate goal might be.  
  
Meanwhile, the speculations were getting totally out of this world, and the wilder they got, the more everyone was laughing. Hannibal hated to bring them down, but it seemed there was one thing they were forgetting.  
  
"It's okay to relax, guys, but let's remember. This guy killed the courier. He's not to be taken lightly."  
  
Face sobered immediately. "How do you know he's the killer, Colonel? All Stockwell said was that the courier turned up dead. He could have been killed by any one of the apparently many people who are after those files."  
  
"And not take the files? C'mon, Face, that doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Maybe the killer turned them over to our guy, and our guy had nothing to do with the murder. He didn't even have to know about it. Or maybe the killer couldn't find them, and our guy did."  
  
"That's pretty far-fetched, Face."  
  
"I'm just saying you can't hang a guy when you don't know the facts. You of all people should understand that much."  
  
For a moment, Hannibal could only stare at his lieutenant. He couldn't believe it. Face was actually angry with them.  
  
"Okay, Face, what the hell is going on here?"  
  
Face immediately put on the innocent expression that fooled most people. Not Hannibal.  
  
"I don't know what you mean, Colonel. I'm simply pointing out that you and the others seem to be guilty of doing much the same thing that was done to you. Convicting a man of something when you have no proof."  
  
"Okay, Face, I'll concede that maybe, maybe, this guy is not a cold-blooded killer. Don't let that blind you to the fact that he is a thief and an extortionist. Possibly - note, I said, possibly - a traitor. I would think that would be enough to make you less sympathetic toward him."  
  
"Who said I was sympathetic? I'm only pointing out a bit of hypocrisy when I see it."  
  
"I think that's enough, Lieutenant."  
  
"Actually, more than enough, Colonel. If you'll excuse me, I'll see you back at the hotel." With that, Face calmly dropped his napkin and stood, heading for the door before anyone could say anything.  
  
"What the hell?" Frankie couldn't believe what had just happened. He'd never seen any of the team get in Hannibal's face like that before. Looking at the rest of the team, he knew none of them ever had, either.  
  
*****  
  
"I need to speak to Carla. Now."  
  
"I'm afraid she's not at her desk right now. Could I take a message?"  
  
"No, you cannot take a message. I know she's there. You put her through or you can kiss Able 7 goodbye."  
  
"Just a moment, please."  
  
Hannibal grinned. He had no idea where Able 7 was, or who he or she was, but it didn't matter. It got their attention.  
  
"Good evening, Colonel Smith. I know Able 7 is in Cincinnati, so let's not bother with any more games. What do you want?"  
  
Hannibal liked Carla's chutzpah. She knew damn well he would be calling her at some point during this job, and she knew why. If she had any kind of personality besides robot, and worked for anyone except Stockwell, he'd like her a lot more.  
  
"I want to know what you haven't told us about this job. Specifically what it has to do with my lieutenant."  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Colonel. Are you telling me that there's a problem with Peck?"  
  
"Yes, there's a problem. And you know what and why. Now I want you to tell me."  
  
"I already told you, Colonel, I have no idea..."  
  
"Okay, okay. Maybe I should talk to Stockwell instead. He might be interested in your little games. And then he might a little more helpful."  
  
"Perhaps you should, Colonel. I'm sure he'd be interested in knowing how the lieutenant is doing. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." She hung up abruptly.  
  
Damn it! Hannibal slammed the phone down. Carla knew damn well he wouldn't call Stockwell. The General hadn't wanted to put Face back with the team to begin with, not until he was "normal" again, but Hannibal had insisted. Stockwell was just waiting for a reason to pull him out and stick him somewhere "useful".  
  
"No luck, Hannibal?" BA was standing by the door, Murdock and Frankie just behind him.  
  
"No, she called my bluff. She has 'no idea' what the problem is."  
  
"So now what?"  
  
Hannibal sighed, rubbed his face with his hands. "So we know Face is having a big problem with this case. Carla probably knows what it is but isn't saying."  
  
"Which means it probably has something do to with his time away from us." Murdock was fiddling with his cap. "Any way of getting hold of the records they kept?"  
  
"No chance. Classified. Which means they're either locked up tighter than Fort Knox, or were destroyed when Barish bought it. Either way we're not going to see them."  
  
"So back to the question - now what?"  
  
"So now we try to get through this job as fast as possible, before Face does something...inadvisable. And guys..."  
  
The three men looked at him, waiting.  
  
"Let's take it easy with this. Keep in mind he's learned a few tricks over the last year or so, plus he still hasn't reconnected...we may have to watch our own backs."  
  
"Aww, c'mon, Hannibal...he wouldn't..."  
  
"How do we know what he would do now, Murdock? We haven't got him back yet, you know that. And you saw how he was at dinner. That's not Face."  
  
"But he's trying..." Hannibal could hear the pleading in Murdock's voice.  
  
"He was trying, Murdock. But I don't think he is any more."  
  
*****  
  
Face stepped into the hotel room. The entry light was on, otherwise it was dark. He made his way carefully to his bedroom, slid out of his clothes and into bed. Murdock, in the next bed, never moved.  
  
He'd walked for a long time, retracing the steps from before. Had actually walked as far as the edge of town, down that highway. He'd wandered aimlessly after that. The euphoria he'd felt after getting the note had died with the argument at dinner. He shouldn't have done that. He really, really shouldn't have done that. They would know something was wrong now. Unless he could come up with some kind of story, something to explain away the anger. Headache, maybe? Yeah, like they'd buy that.  
  
In the end, he said the hell with it, and walked back to the hotel. He would be Face to the hilt from now on. If they asked about the outburst, he'd just apologize, say he didn't know what had gotten into him. Otherwise, he was strictly a team player. Until he heard from him again, and knew what he had to do next.  
  
He shifted in bed, trying to get comfortable. He should've grabbed a sleeping pill. Hannibal would frown on that, of course. But what Hannibal didn't know, wouldn't hurt him. He thought about the Colonel for a few minutes, before he finally drifted off to sleep. He'd been surprised he wasn't up when Face got back, ready for a confrontation. Maybe they were going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Again.  
  
He hadn't seen Hannibal, sitting in a corner of the living room, in the dark, waiting to see if he came back.


	5. Chapter 5

He had one more call to make before he took to the road. He knew there was a problem within the Team. Watching the sudden departure from the restaurant, he'd known then that he would have to work fast. He'd apparently underestimated the strain his friend had been under. It should have been obvious, being confronted daily with people he was supposed to care about and not remembering them. It would have been much worse than his own situation, having to deal with memories alone, no one else to deal with.  
  
He quickly dialed the number that would bypass all the assistants and delays. A direct line he shouldn't have had. A consequence of having too much confidence in security systems. A consequence of underestimating the enemy. Of course, she hadn't known he was the enemy at that point.  
  
The call was answered curtly. She would be expecting anyone except him.  
  
"Hello, Carla. How are you today?"  
  
"I won't bother asking how you got this number. What do you want?"  
  
"Just calling to chat, Carla. It's been a while since we talked, you know."  
  
"Do you still have the files?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Safe and sound. Feel better?"  
  
"What do you want? You've already been paid very well for them. And reneged on your end."  
  
"Now, that's not quite true. If you ask Mr. Bellows, he'll tell you that I said the money would be a start. He neglected to tell you that, didn't he?"  
  
"So what do you want?" Carla was sounding more and more impatient. He smiled at that.  
  
"Lex talionis."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Ah, Carla. Retribution is what I want. Retribution in all its forms."  
  
He hung up then, hearing her questions and demands and ignoring them.  
  
Off-balance. Just the way he wanted them...  
  
*****  
  
It was three days of hell for the team. They canvassed the streets, stopping everyone they met, talking to shopkeepers, trying to get any clue as to strangers that had been in the area. They split up, covering both parts of town where the phone calls had come from, knowing it was really just a way to occupy their time.  
  
Face knew their quarry was gone. What he wasn't sure of was where he had gone. West, to Colorado? North, to Minnesota? Where would Face go, under similar circumstances? That was easy.  
  
Part of him said to drop everything and hit the road. It was getting too close with the guys. They were watching him, all the time. No matter where he went, what he did, one of them was close at hand. All very casual about it, and they maintained a 'reasonable' distance, but it was obvious to him. He cursed his own stupidity for that night at the restaurant. All the more reason for him to want to bolt. He didn't like being under such scrutiny. He didn't like anyone watching him. Spying on him.  
  
But the other part of him, the practical part, knew he had to wait. There was some plan in place, some scheme that had to play out first. He had a pretty good idea what that was all about, too. Barish was gone, there was nothing they could do about him. But there were others, just like the good doctor. And Stockwell. Impatient as he was, he knew he had to wait, wait until certain things were in place.  
  
And if things went the way he thought, he would not only have his friend back, they would have their revenge as well.  
  
He smiled, and moved on to the next shop.  
  
*****  
  
The third call came that night, the product of that call the next morning. The bank where Stockwell's organization did some of its business was seized by the Fed. Certain irregularities had been discovered, thanks to some information which had been delivered to the authorities the day before. It wasn't a disaster, but it caused 'complications', as Stockwell put it.  
  
"So where did the call come from?" Hannibal was on the phone with Stockwell, neither man happy that they still hadn't gotten anywhere near their thief.  
  
"Minneapolis, Colonel. I want the team there ASAP. There's a small private airfield just outside Belle Glade; the jet is already there, waiting."  
  
"I want to know what else is in those files, General. Is it just your organization that's involved? Or are there others?"  
  
Stockwell sighed. "There are others, Colonel, but I'm not at liberty to say which ones. That is strictly..."  
  
"Need to know, right. All right, Stockwell. We'll pack up and head out. But you better come up with something more for us to go on, or it's just going to be another wild goose chase."  
  
Stockwell hung up without responding.  
  
*****  
  
He was taking a long, slow walk along the busy streets. Remembering. The first place he'd gone was the underpass where they had lived in their little boxes. The boxes, of course, were long gone. Any trace of the two men were long gone. New people had moved in. Not very friendly people, either. Oh well. Can't go home again...  
  
He'd walked from there to the half-way house. He only spent a few moments looking at that. It held no happy memories. Just clearing out the cobwebs here.  
  
It was then he'd started the long part of his walk. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Past the deli - damn, Joey was still working there. He watched him through the window, waiting on customers. Ha! He'd grown a mustache. Fancy that...  
  
He continued his walk, looking at all the familiar places, people. Of course, no one recognized him now. He even stopped and chatted with a couple of people who had been helpful to the pair, but although they spoke pleasantly enough to him, it was clear they only saw a stranger. It was depressing, in a way.  
  
Finally he reached his destination. Loring Park. How many hours had they spent here, wandering the paths, circling around the lake. Oh, they'd gotten some looks from the gays cruising around, but as long as they stayed together, they had no problems. He had to watch himself here alone, though. Not that he was afraid of an assault; he just wasn't in the mood for fending off friendly advances.  
  
He wandered the park for a while longer, enjoying the feeling of really being home again. This had definitely been their favorite place. As he headed back down the street, he stopped. A "for rent" sign sat in the window of a basement apartment. He smiled.  
  
What better place for a fresh start? At least, when he'd finished his job...  
  
*****  
  
They lucked out. BA didn't even show signs of waking up until they were in the limo on the way to the hotel. Face ignored his outburst, growing impatient with the continual complaints about flying. He had the greatest urge to just tell the guy to shut up and grow up, but he knew better. He was Face, after all. Face indulged the man. And Face would never stand a chance against BA. Like hell. Face just never showed BA what he could really do. But for now, he just put up with the irritant. He was finding so many things about this group to be, well, irritating. Very irritating.  
  
Over the last couple of days, he'd been thinking a lot about his history with the Team. He found it hard to believe that he could have stayed with them for all those years. But then again, he was a different person from the young kid that had been so easily influenced by the Great Colonel Smith. He could understand how someone like Face would have come under the spell of someone like Smith. It was almost inevitable. Two of a kind, almost. What he hadn't figured out yet was whether Face had been like Smith before the two met, or had he molded himself into that after? How much had Smith deliberately influenced the young kid?  
  
Well, the younger Face was easy enough to figure out. But why on earth had he stayed with these guys so long? From everything he'd learned about, well, himself, he would have been quite capable of making a living - a good living - on his own, on the run or not. Why had he allowed himself to stay under Smith's dominance?  
  
And then there was Murdock. He would never understand that attachment. Never. Pity? Possibly. Certainly not now. Murdock was dangerous. Apparently hadn't been out the nut house that long. Everyone kept telling him the stories, the weird antics Murdock had gone through. He didn't know whether to believe them or not. He certainly hadn't seen any of that in Langley. Eccentricities, certainly. But he'd seen more of a dark side than a humorous one. And Face was supposedly his best friend. That just didn't make any sense at all.  
  
The other two - BA and Santana - he would've dropped those two in a second. BA bounced between being someone's nightmare come true and a real wuss. Afraid of flying? But then maybe that wasn't so far-fetched. Most bullies were real weenies when it came down to it. Oh, sure, he was good when they'd gone on those few missions since his return. But so were a lot of people he knew.  
  
Wait. No. People he'd thought he knew. Face shook his head. Damn it, this was where all the shit got confused again. His past, the past he knew as his, didn't exist. The past he'd never heard of was real. The Team - they were his friends, his family. Anyone else didn't exist.  
  
Except...him. He was real. Face knew that. He knew that.  
  
After all, he had the note.


	6. Chapter 6

Face was getting worried. They had been in Minneapolis for two days now, and there had been nothing for him. No phone calls, no messages, nothing. He knew he had to get out of here, alone, and then he could find him. But they had taken shifts. Nothing said, nothing arranged in the open, of course. But anytime he 'happened' to be awake in the middle of the night, someone else was also having trouble sleeping. It was maddening. Frustrating. Infuriating.  
  
They had met with Stockwell shortly after arriving here. As Hannibal had said, they were given very little information other than what they had already deduced. The files contained, not names or locations, but financial information. The little trick with Stockwell's bank had only been the tip of the iceberg. How these files had come to be, and how their "eastern neighbor" had come to possess it, was not disclosed. All that mattered was that they get this information back before any further damage was done.  
  
Face had smiled to himself as he listened to Stockwell describe the type of information the files contained. It was exactly the type of information he would have gone after. And he would have known exactly how to use it, too.  
  
Bravo, my friend. Bravo.  
  
But that only added to the frustration level now. He knew what the plan was. And he knew that no matter what the Team did, or what Stockwell tried, it wouldn't end until every piece of paper in those files had been exposed. And Face wanted in. He wanted in so badly he could taste it. He thought about what these people had done to him, to them, to how many others, and he felt the anger grow inside. Barish was beyond him now; but the people that worked with him, the people that financed him, they weren't. They could still be brought to their knees. And Stockwell. Who'd turned Face over to them like a piece of meat.  
  
Stockwell was very much within reach. That was only a matter of time. It always had been...  
  
*****  
  
He stopped at the phone booth. This would be a bit trickier. He was through messing with Bellows. Or Carla. He was making this call directly to Stockwell. Much more difficult, as he didn't have the right phone number. He would have to take the time to work his way through the security maze. He could just tell them who he was, what he wanted, but that would just cut his timing down even closer. So he had to do this the hard way.  
  
He smiled. Sometimes the hard way was just more fun...  
  
The first number belonged to Carla's assistant. He felt sorry for her. To have to kowtow to that bitch, day in and day out. But she was easy to manipulate, also. Too used to following orders without question. All he had to do was give her the code word, the same code word he'd used to get Carla's direct line. Again, not so easy this time, as he was working his way up the ladder. But it got him to the next level.  
  
This time a man. Not so easily persuaded. Higher level of security, training. But the code word worked there, too. Now it got tricky. He had no 'in' at the next level. He would have to give them something, identify himself enough so he would be put through. Once he did that, the seconds started ticking off. And Stockwell would keep him going as long as possible.  
  
"I need to speak with General Hunt Stockwell."  
  
"Name?"  
  
"No name. Just tell him I'm a friend of Mr. Bellows."  
  
"Mr. Bellows?"  
  
"You heard me. Stall and I'll hang up."  
  
"Yessir." He was put on hold. He checked his watch. If he was lucky, Minneapolis didn't have the newer phone systems, which meant he'd have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Stockwell's people would be here. If he wasn't lucky, maybe ten.  
  
"Stockwell here."  
  
"Hey, Hunt. Nice to put a voice to the name, guy. I'm going to make this short and sweet. You already know what I can do."  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Ha, that's funny. Let me give you the list. And the deadlines. If they aren't met, there's going to be a lot of paperwork flowing. Get my drift, General?"  
  
"Let's have it."  
  
Three cars came screeching around the corner some seven minutes after Stockwell picked up the line. They found the phone booth, the receiver still swinging wildly...  
  
*****  
  
Stockwell called that afternoon. Their thief, according to the General, had made his first mistake. He'd given them a list of demands, and Stockwell knew from that what papers would be going where, and when. All the team had to do was make sure the thief had no opportunity to turn over the papers.  
  
Right. Piece of cake...  
  
After hanging up with the General, Hannibal called his men together and began planning. He wanted to get this right the first time, and it wasn't going to be easy. They knew the earliest any attempt would be made to hand over the information to the proper authorities. But this guy could take his time after that. It would mean possibly days of surveillance.  
  
"Why wouldn't he just mail the stuff, Johnny?"  
  
"He wants immediate gratification. And he's hands-on. He knows who has to get this information and how, in order to get the greatest attention. Going through the post office, hoping it gets there in one piece, doesn't get sloughed off to some assistant - no, he's going to turn this over in a way that will garner the most attention. Just like the first time. Within an hour of the first deadline being missed, the right guy at the Fed had the information in his hands. He'll do the same thing this time."  
  
"Why do you think he's doing this, Hannibal?" Murdock was sitting on the couch, twirling his cap. His question was directed at Hannibal, but he was watching Face out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"He's got a grudge. Against the government, against Stockwell, maybe just against the world in general. But he gets a thrill out of it. A big thrill."  
  
"Kinda like the Jazz, Hannibal?" Murdock saw Face stiffen slightly at that.  
  
"Yeah, in a perverted sort of way." Hannibal looked at Face when he replied. Saw just a momentary flicker of anger. Something ran through Hannibal's mind. There was something he was missing. Something he should have thought of but hadn't. Yet.  
  
"Okay, then, let's drive over to the Senator's office and take a look around. We need to know that building like the back of our hand. And see what we can do to limit his options."  
  
Without a word of discussion, the five men left the hotel and headed for their objective - the local office of a United States senator, who just happened to be in town during a recess. Even Hannibal had to admire this guy's timing.  
  
*****  
  
Face knew he was running out of time. He had to get out that night, one way or the other. The guys were planning on relaxing in the room that night, watching a couple tapes Murdock had picked up that morning. He'd liked the layout of the Senator's building. He had a lot of ideas about that, and knowing what Hannibal had planned was the icing on the cake. If he could get out of the room tonight, everything would work.  
  
He finally decided there was only one way to do it. He didn't like to. Too...Stockwell. But then again, one had to fight fire with fire.  
  
The second movie was just over half done when Murdock got up to refill everyone's drinks. Face offered to help and they moved into the kitchenette. Face hadn't missed the glance of warning Hannibal had given Murdock. Nor did he miss the frown on Murdock's face. A little dissension among the troops, Colonel? Good. He could work Murdock.  
  
He deliberately created a diversion by dropping one of the glasses, and watched, amused, as Murdock made a show of cleaning up the broken glass, while surreptitiously keeping an eye on Face. He noted how Murdock relaxed when no attempt was made to doctor the drinks. The next step was a little trickier.  
  
"Better add some ice to those, Murdock. You know how everybody will yell if they're not cold enough."  
  
"Good idea, Face. Last thing I need is BA pounding on me before bed." Murdock laughed and grabbed the ice from the freezer. Face watched with satisfaction as the doctored ice went into the glasses.  
  
He'd made up the ice tray that afternoon, right under Frankie's nose. There was a reason Face would have dumped that guy...  
  
*****  
  
The guys had all gone to bed almost immediately after the movie ended. Face had faked one swallow, and set the glass casually on the floor beside the couch. Funny thing about people. If he'd held a cigarette, people would notice if he didn't smoke it. If he held a glass, people would notice he wasn't drinking. No glass in hand, no notice given when he wasn't sipping along with them. So simple.  
  
He waited a good half hour before venturing out. As expected, no one else was up. He figured he had three to four hours. If his instincts were right, he'd be back in half that time. Outside the hotel, he was able to grab a cab almost immediately. He'd liked that about Minneapolis. The city never went to bed.  
  
It took less than twenty minutes. Another five minutes to find his way to the pavilion. He was careful as he marched along the pathways. The park was calm and peaceful during the day; there'd been a lot more action at night. And not nice action, either.  
  
He saw him almost immediately, even though he sat in the shadows. For a moment he stopped, his heart pounding. This was it. He should have known long ago. He never should have tried to fit into that other world. He didn't fit there. Not any more. This was where he belonged. With the only other person who knew what he knew, thought as he thought, acted in total sync with him.  
  
He stepped up to the pavilion steps. The other man stood, moved out of the shadows. They stood, facing each other, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"Hey, Randy."  
  
"Hey, Sam."


	7. Chapter 7

They knew time was short, but still they walked. Neither had said much at all; just walked and every now and then looked at each other and grinned. Just like the old days. Didn't have to say anything, just walk along and enjoy each other's company. There were things they needed to talk about, and things they wouldn't talk about, but they needed to get back in each other's rhythm first. And then they felt ready.  
  
"How much do they know?"  
  
"Some, but not enough. Not yet. We haven't much time."  
  
"No. Your colonel is pretty quick. It won't take him long now. Although I doubt dear Carla is helping him out any."  
  
Face laughed. "No, Carla is being...well, Carla." He hesitated. "She's using me to get to you, you know. I had to slip the cabby an extra twenty bucks just to zig zag around before coming here. Just in case. He wasn't too happy having a fare giving him directions." He chuckled, thinking of the cabby's total confusion at the circuitous route they'd taken. That made it worthwhile, even though Face hadn't seen anyone on their tail.  
  
His companion chuckled with him. It was good to hear that sound again. "I wouldn't worry about Carla too much. Her people know who she's after." His voice took on a grim tone.  
  
Face stopped and looked him in the eye. "And who is she after?"  
  
"A ghost. A nightmare. Someone that should have died a long time ago. At least, that's who they think they're after. Not who I am. Although, it's nice to have some of the skills of that ghost. For now, anyway." He looked at Face. "And who is she using to find me?"  
  
"I wish I knew." Face kicked at a nonexistent stone. He was not going to waste their time being maudlin. He glanced at his watch. He had to be getting back, and soon.  
  
"What's next?"  
  
"I have a deadline coming up for the General this morning. He's not going to make it, of course."  
  
"The Colonel already has a plan set up. A very good plan, actually. Too good for one man to outwit."  
  
"Good thing there's two of us then."  
  
They looked at each other and laughed.  
  
God, it was good to really laugh again.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal awoke that morning with a headache. Looking at the sun filtering through the curtains, he knew they'd been had. Damn. He got up hurriedly, pulling on a pair of pants before heading into the other bedroom.  
  
He stared suspiciously at the bed where Face was sleeping. Quietly, he stepped over and picked up the shoes from the floor beside the bed and stepped back out of the room. Going to the kitchenette, he switched on the light and looked at the bottoms. Dry. No cleaner, no dirtier than they should be. Hannibal sighed, and just as quietly replaced them.  
  
Wandering back to kitchenette, he started a pot of coffee. Looked at the glasses in the sink. Rinsed out, of course. But Hannibal knew Face hadn't doctored the drinks. Murdock had been right there with him. He watched the coffee pot for a moment, thinking. He stepped over to the refrigerator, opening the freezer compartment. Shook his head. The ice cube tray had been refilled already.  
  
He knew they'd been drugged. He knew it. He just couldn't prove it. Any more than he could prove Face had left the hotel last night. But Hannibal knew he had.  
  
What he didn't know was why.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock shuffled into the living room and flopped down on the couch. He looked at Hannibal and shook his head.  
  
"You, too?"  
  
Hannibal nodded his head. Under other circumstances, he would have been chuckling over the lieutenant's outfoxing them. There was nothing to laugh about today.  
  
"So now what, Hannibal? You going to call him on it?"  
  
"Like that would do any good." BA stalked out of his room and headed for the refrigerator. He joined them in the living room with a large glass of milk. "He'd just look innocent and deny everything."  
  
"The problem is, I can't prove he did anything. Including leaving the room last night."  
  
"Did he?"  
  
"Damn it, Murdock, I don't know. I even checked his shoes and there was nothing to say he'd left."  
  
"Man, what was in those drinks last night, Johnny? I can't believe the hangover I've got!" Frankie stumbled out of his room and made for the coffee pot. BA just shook his head.  
  
"Well, Murdock? You and he put them together last night."  
  
"I swear, Hannibal, he didn't put anything in them. He dropped a glass, but was right there helping me clean it up and he never got near those drinks when I wasn't watching."  
  
"Who made up the ice cubes?"  
  
"Uh, Face did, yesterday afternoon. But I was watching him, Johnny. Nada. Absolutely nada."  
  
"Anybody check the bottles?"  
  
"He never had his hands on them. Not when I was around him."  
  
"Nope, never did, Hannibal."  
  
Frankie shook his head. "We never had 'em out."  
  
They sat silently for a moment. How the hell had he done it?  
  
*****  
  
Face woke up, feeling groggy. He wouldn't have to fake a headache this morning. He was feeling every second of his early morning activities.  
  
After leaving the park, he'd had a hard time finding another cab. Then he'd had to sneak into the hotel, and into the men's room, where he'd carefully rinsed and dried the bottoms of his shoes. Then back out of the hotel for a quick walk around the block and back up to the room. Everyone had been sound asleep yet. Dropping into bed, he'd been unable to fall asleep right away. Going over every moment again in his mind, going over their plans.  
  
It would be easier now, knowing what the goal was. There was an element of disappointment, of course. It could be weeks before he could extricate himself from his current situation. Or days. That all depended on the Colonel.  
  
On one hand, he wanted Smith to figure things out quickly. Face wanted out. Soon. On the other hand, the longer he could keep them guessing, the easier it would be to complete the plan. Their plan. And that was more important.  
  
He crawled out of bed and immediately popped some aspirin. Throwing on his robe, not bothering to get dressed, he headed out to beard the lion. As expected, the men were all congregated in the living room, all looking much as he felt. Eight eyes bored into him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sleep well, Face?"  
  
"I don't know if you'd call it sleeping or not. Feels like someone slipped me a Mickie."  
  
He could feel Hannibal scrutinizing him. A look of uncertainty crept over the man's face. "We were just saying the same thing."  
  
Face stopped and stared at them. Okay, play it cool. Puzzlement, then suspicion.  
  
"You guys, too? All of you?"  
  
They nodded. He could see the Colonel's doubt spreading to the others. Excellent.  
  
"The bottle? Anybody check it yet?"  
  
"Uh, yes, we did, Face." Hannibal made a note to check it as soon as Face was occupied. If Face hadn't done it, then who...? "What we're trying to figure out is why...and who, of course."  
  
Nice cover up, Colonel. Face had to admire how quickly he was able to switch to this new avenue.  
  
"Our friend, the thief? But how? And why last night? Stockwell's deadline isn't until later this morning."  
  
"I don't know the answers, Face. But I'm going to find out." Hannibal sighed. This just was not making any sense. Face was the only one who could have done anything, and yet, he looked as bad as the rest of them. And, damn it, Hannibal had no proof. Maybe he needed to step back and re-think his doubts about his second. Maybe.  
  
"All right, guys, this is getting us nowhere. That deadline is coming up. We need to be in position well before hand."  
  
Despite his headache, Face smiled to himself. You were right, Colonel. Some things you never forget.


	8. Chapter 8

Face had been right. Hannibal's plan was a very good one. Very simple. The Senator's building had eight entrances on the first floor, and four more into the basement. Obviously too many for the team to cover effectively. The second and third floors each had two stairwells and two sets of elevators. There were fire escapes on each end. The Senator's offices were located just off the central staircase.  
  
The office building opened at 9:00 a.m.; the deadline Stockwell had been given for the latest demand was 11:00 a.m.. By half past eight, the team had made a complete canvass of the building's interior and knew that, other than janitorial staff, it was empty. By quarter to nine, one set of elevators were undergoing 'repairs', and the secondary stairwell was closed for 'painting'. Face and Frankie had checked out the Senator's personal office area, including his calendar. His day was filled with appointments. Hannibal would be watching for anyone attempting to see the Senator without one.  
  
Face, Murdock, and Frankie were stationed at various points on the floor to permit quick access to the only exits they had left available. BA was stationed outside in the van, ready to follow anyone who got past the team inside.  
  
Hannibal took his position in the Senator's outer office, working slowly and carefully on a non-existent electrical problem. The secretary was a little hard to convince that anything was wrong, until BA's timer in the basement went off and the lights and computers started flickering. He had assured Hannibal that as long as he didn't actually touch certain wires, the flickering would continue throughout the day.  
  
The day itself was long and boring. The deadline came and went. Two people came into the Senator's office without appointments; one, a student reporter from the local university who was way too young. The other was an elderly gentleman who was very hard of hearing. Hannibal kept a close eye on the desk while the secretary dealt with each of them, figuring either could be just a diversion, but no papers or envelopes mysteriously appeared on the desk. By the end of the business day, Hannibal was more than ready to call it a day. Unfortunately, they still had to deal with any 'overnight' deliveries.  
  
In a way, this was easier. After making sure no one was lingering in the office when the secretary prepared to lock up, Hannibal said his goodnight to the lady, with his apologies for taking so long to repair the problems. As soon as that good woman disappeared in the elevator, the rest of the team appeared. Face quickly picked the lock and they entered the office. Another quick check, and they were ready for phase two.  
  
Hannibal had considered this part of the operation from a more personal perspective. They could have worked with just one person in the office, another in the alcove down the hall from the office door, and the rest taking a break in the van, switching halfway through the night. But Hannibal did not want Face left on his own. It was hard to admit that he really did not trust his lieutenant any more; he had never thought it could happen. But these were special circumstances. He knew, he hoped, that if this job had come up six months or a year from now, he would never have entertained such thoughts.  
  
More and more he was wishing he had been able to leave Face behind on this one. He should have known there would be problems that first day. But even knowing what he did now, Hannibal couldn't think of a plausible reason to not include him. Not without causing problems with both Face and Stockwell. Nothing short of a physical injury would have stopped the lieutenant from being included, and Hannibal would not have even considered that.  
  
So, for phase two, Hannibal settled on two people in the office, two in a rental car on one side of the building, and BA in the van on the other side. It wasn't ideal, but it would work. The men in the vehicles could sleep, and if anything happened in the office, they could be reached in seconds by radio. Hannibal and Frankie took the first shift and settled in as comfortably as they could without falling asleep.  
  
Face and Murdock waited in the rental car in front of the building, Face stretching out in the front seat, Murdock in back. Face knew he should get some sleep, but he was too excited. He could feel an electricity running through him. Maybe what the others called the Jazz. Whatever it was, it felt good. Hell, it felt great. He kept watching the building, thinking. Seeing it in his mind. So simple. The winning element of any good plan. Simplicity.  
  
"Can't sleep, Face?" Murdock's voice was muffled in the back seat.  
  
"It'll come. Don't worry about it." He didn't mean to sound so clipped, but he didn't need a conversation with Murdock just now.  
  
"What's going on with you, Face? You've been so, I don't know, tense since we started this job."  
  
"You're imagining things, Murdock."  
  
"No, I don't do that anymore, Muchacho. I'm sane now, y'know?"  
  
Yeah, right. "Okay, okay, but I haven't been tense. I've just been concentrating on the job."  
  
"Hmm, how about agitated, perturbed, irritated, provoked, stirred up, worked up, piqued..."  
  
"Murdock, if you don't shut up, I will show you what I'm like when I'm irritated."  
  
"Sheee..." Murdock grumbled, but shut up. He was beginning to understand why Hannibal was having second thoughts about having Face with them. There had been no joking in that voice.  
  
*****  
  
Morning came without incident. Face and Murdock, besides restlessly pacing the Senator's offices, had had nothing to do except stare at each other. They couldn't talk, for fear of any visitors hearing them. The only excitement had come when the custodians had come to clean. The two men spent a very uncomfortable half hour stuck in the closet. They made a fast but thorough inspection of the room after their release, in case one of the custodial staff had left anything behind, but they found nothing.  
  
Finally they heard Hannibal's knock at the door. Murdock opened it with relief. Sixteen hours in close proximity with Face had become almost unbearable, something he never would have thought possible. Murdock hadn't been around Face as much as the others since he'd come back, but enough so he thought the old Face was making a strong comeback. Now he wasn't sure at all. While Murdock had gotten up occasionally to stretch, Face had been in almost constant motion. Checking the door, the windows, looking through the bookshelves. Other than while stuck in the closet, he had never quit moving. It was even more irritating because Murdock had orders from Hannibal to keep an eye on him.  
  
Today they had to move to a different scenario. Hannibal couldn't work on the electrical again, so Murdock had been elected to go in, ostensibly to see the Senator without an appointment. After watching yesterday's activities, Hannibal was quite sure that Murdock would spend the day waiting.  
  
Thus it was Murdock who had the first hint something was not right. Shortly after the Senator arrived, he came bursting out of his office and conferred in low tones, but with obvious urgency, with his secretary. She seemed to be denying something, and the Senator returned to his office in a huff. Within minutes, the secretary's phone rang, and after speaking for a moment, began telling everyone in the office that the Senator would have to reschedule their appointments. She included Murdock in her 'don't argue with me' look. As he shuffled out the door, he heard her get back on the phone, apparently calling another Senator.  
  
Once outside, Murdock found Hannibal and casually stepped up next to him. He saw the others start moving in.  
  
"What's going on, Captain?"  
  
"Dunno, Colonel, but the Senator's definitely not happy about something, and he's canceling all his appointments. I heard the secretary calling another Senator as I left."  
  
"Damn. I don't like this." Frankie and Face had moved up close now, curiosity and concern showing clearly. Hannibal quickly explained what had happened.  
  
"It can't be our guy, Colonel. There was no way he could've gotten anything past us." Face was adamant, and Murdock agreed.  
  
"Even the janitors - we checked everything out after they left, Hannibal. There was nothing there that wasn't before."  
  
"Okay, okay. Maybe it's something totally unrelated. He is an important Senator, after all." Hannibal knew it sounded more like a hope than a certainty, but he agreed with his men. There was no way anyone had slipped something in under their noses.  
  
*****  
  
Face was practically humming inside. He'd pulled it off so smoothly! He couldn't believe it had been that easy. But then, they were dealing with Face. Face, who they knew like the back of their collective hands. Whose scams they saw through with ease. Who could never lie without their knowing. They knew Face inside and out.  
  
But they don't know me...  
  
*****  
  
Telling the others to wait there and keep an eye on the office, Hannibal hurried out to the van. He filled BA in on things as he dialed Stockwell's number. Five minutes later he hung up, shaken.  
  
"The bastard's done it again, BA. The Senator is calling for an investigation into one of the programs that Stockwell's got an 'interest' in. Some of the projects that weren't really in their purview, additional funding they weren't supposed to have."  
  
"But how did he do it, Hannibal?"  
  
"I don't know, BA. There was just no way he could have."  
  
"Except Face..."  
  
"Murdock was with Face the whole time. He would have noticed if he'd left anything there. Besides, how would Face have gotten hold of that file?"  
  
"The other night, Hannibal."  
  
"We still haven't figured out how we were drugged, BA. We don't know how that happened, we don't know if he left the hotel, we don't know how the papers got to the Senator, and there's nothing we can pin on Face. Yes, it's obviously something he could have done. But did he? I can't accuse him of anything, BA, not without some really hard proof. I can't risk losing him because of a gut feeling. We've been through too much and too many years to do that."  
  
"I know, Hannibal, but if we don't do somethin, soon, we can kiss those pardons goodbye. Not to mention all the problems those papers have gotta cause."  
  
"I know, BA, I know. But there's only one way we're going to get to the bottom of this. And that's to push Face as hard we can without an outright accusation. Push him hard enough and something's got to give."


	9. Chapter 9

Carla sat at her desk, chewing anxiously on her pen. It was a habit she had given up years ago. Mostly. She only did it now when she was extremely agitated. And she was definitely that.  
  
This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Peck was supposed to find his old partner and allow the team to bring him back in. Instead, he appeared to be as inept at finding the man as the rest of them. And yet...there was that phone call from Smith. Something was going on with Peck. Something that had the Colonel worried enough to contact her. Worried enough not to contact Stockwell.  
  
So why the hell hadn't they found him yet? Good God, he was leaving a path for Peck that a blind man could follow. And time was running out. She'd seen the list of demands and deadlines. Every one of the demands linked to a financial 'arrangement' of some sort. Either through Stockwell's organization or Barish's group. She could give a rat's ass about Barish's bunch, but Stockwell's items were the first ones on the list. By the time they got to Barish, Stockwell - and Carla - would be permanently out of the picture.  
  
Which meant Smith and his men would be out in the cold. With a death warrant hanging over them. She wondered if Peck even knew about that.  
  
Maybe it was time she had a little talk with the lieutenant. Find out why he hadn't found his old partner yet and if he realized the consequences if he didn't. Yes, it was definitely time for a tete a tete.  
  
*****  
  
He had rented the basement apartment. It was dark, damp, and had cockroaches, but he didn't care. He didn't spend that much time there, and it was directly across the street from the park. He moved in the very day he signed the lease. By that evening, he was settled in with the furniture he'd picked out the day before. A four inch cockroach named Ernie, now at home in a small terrarium, kept him company. Until Face could get away. Face. All his resolve about that name had flown out the window when he'd finally seen him. But seeing the confusion the man was still trying to work through, he'd renewed that resolve. Sighing, he sat down with his maps and papers, going over the last details. After an hour or so, he pulled out his Sig and started cleaning it. He had no intention of needing it, but he also intended to be prepared.  
  
He had given Stockwell a little extra time for the next deadline. He knew the General would have to work with some other people on that one, and, 'influential' the General may be, these other guys were stubborn. He idly wondered if Stockwell would actually bow down to him on any of his list. He doubted it. To do so would wreak as much havoc on his organization as the financial fiascos. Undoubtedly he recognized that his organization was sentenced to destruction, either way. And then it would be the other guys' turn.  
  
He wasn't sure why he'd placed Stockwell at the head of the list. Probably for Face. Face had not had any choice. Not like he had. Not that it was exactly voluntary, but his 'career' had pretty much marked him for a guinea pig. He hadn't exactly lived a lily-white existence. And that had been by choice.  
  
How was it he'd described it to him? A nightmare. Yeah, that was a pretty good description. Not something he was proud of. Not now, anyway. He'd learned some things from being around Face. Even though he wasn't Face then. But the quality of the person still came through. If it hadn't, they both would have been dead already. From Face he'd learned what loyalty meant. Real loyalty, not that blindly-do-as-you're-told-and-wave-the-flag-while-you're-at-it loyalty. The stuff they crammed into you so you could butcher babies without blinking an eye.  
  
He closed his eyes. Those memories he didn't want. Those belonged to someone else. Someone monstrous.  
  
Someone that should have died a long time ago.  
  
*****  
  
"Well, Stockwell's out for blood. Ours." Hannibal glared at the assembled team. While his speech was given to all of them, all but one knew who it was intended for. "I cannot believe that we allowed a two-bit extortionist to slip past us."  
  
"I wouldn't exactly call him two-bit, Colonel." Face's voice was calm but there was just a bit of a flash in his eyes. "After all, he took Stockwell for a cool million."  
  
"Oh, that's right. The extortionist who stole confidential material and didn't have enough honor to turn them over when he got paid that 'cool million'. In my book that's two-bit."  
  
"I'd hardly worry about honor when you consider who you're working for, Colonel."  
  
"You forgetting that you also work for the General, Lieutenant?"  
  
"I only wish I could. Along with a lot of other things I wish had stayed forgotten. For good." Face stalked out of the living room and slammed into the bedroom. A moment later they heard the shower going.  
  
"Well, how's your plan working, Hannibal? I mean, I was really impressed, the way he opened up to us like that. How 'bout you, BA?"  
  
"Shut up, fool."  
  
"Okay, Murdock, the idea is not to get him to open up. The idea is to piss him off. And keep pissing him off until that control goes. That happens, we're going to find out what the hell is going on."  
  
"And then what?" Murdock was kneading his baseball cap, angry at the whole situation.  
  
"And then we'll know how to finish up this job and go home." Hannibal sighed, looked down at the floor. He had to collect himself before going on. He'd allowed his true anger at the circumstances to push through a little too much. He wasn't the only one who had to keep control. "Look, Murdock, you know we can't let this go on. Much as I'd like to see it happen, we can't afford to let Stockwell fall. Not yet. Not until we have those pardons in our hands."  
  
"I know that, Hannibal." Murdock recognized Hannibal's dilemma. And his conciliatory tone. "I'm just worried about Face. Not only why he's being like he is, but what's going to happen when we make him blow his lid."  
  
"Then we'll do what we need to, to pick up the pieces. The way things are now is not good for him, either, Murdock. It's not good for anyone. The longer we let him go, the further back he falls into that other guy, and I'm not prepared to let that happen. This is as much for him as it is for us. More so. A hell of a lot more."  
  
"Okay, Hannibal. I know. It's just hard...especially when it worked so well." Murdock smiled up at him, just a bit of a gleam in his eye.  
  
"Yeah, I know...I know..." Hannibal chuckled, the gleam in his own eyes brilliant.  
  
*****  
  
Face stood under the hot pelting water, trying not to think, trying to calm down. He had to quit losing his temper like that. Damn, damn, damn it! He was so sick of that sanctimonious, overblown, son of a bitch! Two-bit. Right. He'd make twenty of Smith. As if Smith and his group hadn't taken down bad guys in any way they could. What the hell did he think Stockwell was? And Barish! God, of all the sick bastards...  
  
He didn't even realize he'd done it, until he felt the pain running up his arm. His fist, where it had slammed into the side of the shower, felt like mush. Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!  
  
He heard the pounding on the bathroom door.  
  
"Face! Face! Are you alright?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm alright! Just...just forget it."  
  
There was a pause. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes, dammit, Murdock, just leave me alone, will you?"  
  
He stepped out of the shower and immediately held his hand under a gush of cold water from the sink. The throbbing started abating but he knew the hand was going to be swollen up. He carefully flexed the fingers and wrist. Hurt like hell but he didn't think anything was broken. Shit.  
  
He sat down on the edge of the tub. What the hell was he doing? This was not him. He did not lose his temper like this. He did not lose control like this. He...hell, he didn't know if he did or not.  
  
Painfully, he wrapped a towel around himself and opened the door, nearly bumping into Hannibal. Great. Just fucking great.  
  
"Problem, Face?" No anger in the voice this time.  
  
"No, I'm fine. I just need some sleep."  
  
Hannibal took his arm, firmly but gently, bringing the rapidly swelling hand up. "Why don't we wrap that up first?"  
  
If it hadn't hurt so badly, Face would've pushed away. There was something unsettling about letting a man he was coming to loath take care of him. But it did need wrapping and he couldn't do it himself.  
  
"Fine." He pulled his arm away, but not angrily. He sat on the side of the bed as Hannibal took care of the hand.  
  
"Okay?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Face, I don't know what's going on with you, but..."  
  
"There's nothing going on with me, Colonel. I slipped getting out of the shower. That's all."  
  
He saw the tightening of the jaw. Hannibal walked out of the room without another word.  
  
No more Mr. Nice Guy, huh, Smith?


	10. Chapter 10

Carla arrived outside the hotel early in the morning. She sat, watching the front door, not quite sure how to go about this, now that she was here. She definitely did not want a confrontation with Smith. She thought for a few moments, and then picked up the mobile phone and carefully wrapped a hankie over the mouthpiece. A few minutes later she was connected with the Team's suite.  
  
Hannibal answered the phone. Keeping her fingers crossed that she could pull this off, she put on a deep Southern accent.  
  
"Colonel Smith? This is Anna Carlson. I'm one of General Stockwell's assistants."  
  
She held her breath. When Smith replied, the suspicion was clear in his voice.  
  
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss Carlson. Perhaps you could verify who you are?"  
  
"Certainly. Empress One."  
  
"Very well, Miss Carlson. What can we do for you?"  
  
"General Stockwell received a tip on those files. He doesn't know how accurate it is, but we need someone who can break into a safe, and quickly."  
  
"Well, that's where we might have a problem...our safe man injured his hand last night. I don't know if he can do it left handed."  
  
"Injured his hand? How?" Carla almost lost her accent but recovered quickly.  
  
"A little accident in the shower. Anyway, uh, I'm not sure..."  
  
"Well, I'm afraid he'll have to try, Colonel. We don't have time to bring anyone else in. Have him come to the front of the hotel in ten minutes. A car will pick him up."  
  
"Okay, I'll have him and one of our other guys down in...'  
  
"No, just your safe man. We'll provide backup."  
  
"Now, wait a minute..."  
  
"Colonel Smith, I really don't have time to argue. General Stockwell was very insistent on this."  
  
She heard Hannibal's sigh of resignation. "All right, he'll be there."  
  
"Thank you, Colonel Smith. I appreciate your help. General Stockwell can be, well, difficult, if we don't do things his way."  
  
"I understand, Miss."  
  
Ten minutes later Face appeared in front of the hotel, looking up and down the street, nervously. Carla pulled up to the curb, just past the door, and shoved the passenger door open. Face stopped short when he looked in the door and saw her.  
  
"Don't just stand there. Get in before Smith sends someone out here."  
  
They sped away, disappearing into traffic.  
  
*****  
  
As soon as Face left, Hannibal put in a call to Stockwell. He hung up, frustrated.  
  
"Stockwell is on a conference call. Won't be available for hours. Probably damage control."  
  
Frankie and Murdock came hurrying in the door. Hannibal had sent them down ahead of Face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver, or at least get a license number. "Sorry, Johnny. All I can tell you is the make and model. Dark tinted windows, and the license plate had mud all over it. But Face seemed to know who the driver was."  
  
"Damn." Hannibal shook his head, disgusted. "Nothing to do now but wait and see if he comes back."  
  
"He'll come back, Hannibal. He's not going to run out on us." Murdock looked around at the doubting faces. "He won't. Look, even if he is reverting, or whatever you want to call it, he'll come back. If he can. How else is he going to know what we're planning..." Murdock hated putting it that way, but it was the one argument they could all agree on.  
  
"Yeah, and, I mean, this could be legit, right? Stockwell's gotta have other guys working on this, too, right? Maybe one of them found something..." Frankie looked at Murdock, and got a grateful smile in return. Frankie didn't know if he believed it any more than Johnny, but hell, Face had been nice to him since he'd gotten back; well, most of the time. Just lately...  
  
Hannibal looked at the two of them, then over to BA, waiting for his input.  
  
"I don't like it, Hannibal, but Face wasn't all that eager to go help Stockwell. If it'd been somethin he had planned, or expected..." BA just shrugged then.  
  
Finally an argument Hannibal could accept. Face hadn't wanted to go. That was no scam. It had practically taken a direct order to get him to leave. Whatever the real story, Face hadn't played a part in it.  
  
"All right, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Who knows? Maybe the whole thing is legit, and when Face gets back we can all go home."  
  
Yeah, right...  
  
*****  
  
"Okay, Carla, start talking. What the hell are you trying to pull? You knew..."  
  
"Drop it, Lieutenant. Yes, I knew exactly who the extortionist was. As soon as I found out he'd called from Belle Glade. Just like you knew. That's why I had to make sure you were brought in on it. Now what I want to know is why you haven't been able to connect with him."  
  
"What makes you think I can? Or want to?"  
  
"Well, you'd better want to, Lieutenant. There's too much riding on this."  
  
"You think I care if Stockwell goes down in flames? Lady, you got a lot to learn."  
  
"If the General goes down, as you say, the Team will be going down right along with him. Not only will you lose any chance for a pardon, you'll be wanted by the military again. This time with a death sentence waiting for you."  
  
Face paled visibly. "Wait a minute. The military thinks we're dead. Everyone thinks we're dead..."  
  
Carla shook her head. One would have thought they would have let him know all of the recent history first. "No, Lieutenant, the military discovered that the 'bodies' were missing from the morgue. They know the team escaped. And they will make damn sure those sentences are carried out the next time they get their hands on the team." As an afterthought, she added, "Of course, you, at least, do have a body in a grave, so I suppose you stand a chance of getting away, at least for a while. At least until someone informs the MPs of what really happened..."  
  
Face sat back in the seat, looking out of the windshield, seeing nothing. This was too much, way too much. He had to think. This put a different light on everything. Everything.  
  
*****  
  
It was time to throw a wrench into the works. Stockwell was occupied with the next deadline, so it was the perfect opportunity to entice the team with some independent work. Nothing in the rules said he had to deal exclusively with Stockwell, after all. Especially since there were no rules.  
  
As he dialed the hotel, he started smiling. This was getting to the really fun part, now. Stockwell running around on one side, getting the team involved in trying to save his ass with each new deadline; and he, himself on the other side, sending the team out on little errands of his own. He'd have the whole bunch running around in scared little circles, desperate to stop things before it all crashed down on them, none of them knowing what was really going to happen next...  
  
He held no little animosity toward the famous A-Team. Face hadn't said a lot about them, but enough so he understood what had happened. They expected Face to just forget all about those months together with him. Like he'd never existed. Sure, cut off the guy's right arm and tell him to pretend he never had it to begin with. No wonder Face was having problems.  
  
And he was having problems. That was obvious. Which meant a problem for both of them. At least, in the short run. He would have to bear that in mind, with all these little games he'd be playing. Try not to screw his friend up any more than he already was. It had been hard enough to deal with his own new/old past clashes. With the team trying to make Face deny that part of him...he'd thought Smith was smarter than that. But then, Smith hadn't dealt with a lot psych problems, not like he had. Smith had seen the 'typical' battlefield problems, whereas he'd had to deal with guys losing it after too many special ops. Special ops that Smith would never have dreamed of taking on...  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Shit. How long had Smith been on the line?  
  
"Colonel Smith, I believe?"  
  
"Who's this?"  
  
"This is a very special friend of General Stockwell's. I have something he's been looking for. Interested?"  
  
*****  
  
Some thirty minutes after he'd left, Face walked into the hotel room. Hannibal was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the look on his lieutenant's face as he strode over to him, ignoring the rest of the men in the room.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"What?" Hannibal looked up at him, confused.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me about the death sentence? Why didn't you tell me what was at stake? All this time, and I never knew what Stockwell was holding over you! Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Shit. Who had told him that? And why now?  
  
"Face, listen, it's nothing we worry about, okay? Stockwell uses it as lever against us, that's all. Between that and the pardons, he figures it'll keep us in line."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me!"  
  
"Because we didn't think it was necessary at the time. You were having enough problems. You still are, for chrissake. We would have told you when you were more yourself."  
  
"More myself? Damn it, Hannibal! Do you realize...do you know what I could have...all this time, I've..."  
  
"Face, what's going on?" Hannibal was getting seriously concerned, now. Face had a wild look in his eyes. "Where were you? Who were you with?"  
  
"Damn it, Hannibal, why didn't you tell me? It changes everything!"  
  
"What does it change? Nothing. We told you what you could handle."  
  
"And who the hell are you to decide that? Who gave you the right to decide what I should or shouldn't be told, what I should or shouldn't remember?"  
  
"Face, you have to calm down. We'll talk about this, I promise. We need to get it all ironed out, but it's gotta wait for now. We don't have a lot of time."  
  
"What? What do you mean?"  
  
"I got a call from the extortionist. Directly. He wants to set up a meet. We've got less than an hour..."  
  
No. The plan. He was going ahead with it. But he didn't know...  
  
"You can't do that, Hannibal...you..."  
  
"Why not, Face? We have a chance to take this slimeball out, once and for all..."  
  
Slimeball? No, no, he wasn't a...no, they didn't understand. They didn't know what he was really doing.  
  
"Hannibal, you just can't. Just skip it."  
  
"We can't do that, Face. This guy has caused too much damage. We have to put him down. A man is dead because of him, Face."  
  
"I told you he didn't do that!" Why couldn't they understand that? He wouldn't kill anyone like that. That wasn't what he wanted. Not what they wanted...  
  
"And how would you know that, Face? I want some answers, Lieutenant. Now! What are you holding back? What are you keeping from your team? What do you know about this low-life bastard?"  
  
What was he holding back? The Colonel was angry at Face for holding back on the team? Hadn't the man heard anything Face had said? Was his only concern the team? Suddenly Face realized what they'd been doing. Realized how selective they were being in what he remembered.  
  
Like Barish.  
  
Now he knew where he stood, why he was with these people. As long as he thought only of the team, as long as he was useful to the team, as long as he could be used...he suddenly looked at the Colonel, decided.  
  
"I know I'm not just an experiment to him, Smith."  
  
Before anyone could stop him, Face was out the door. By the time they got to the hallway, he was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Hannibal stood at the window, looking down at the busy streets below. Without realizing it, he was looking for him. As if he would be able to make him out among all those ants scurrying around.  
  
Murdock had hurried to the elevators, Frankie had taken the stairwell, trying to get to the lobby and find him. It was a waste of time. Hannibal knew that. But he let them go anyway. It got them out of the room. The only one who remained was BA, who was calmly checking their weapons, waiting for Hannibal to get it together again. Ready to listen when Hannibal was ready to talk.  
  
But Hannibal was definitely not ready to talk. There were just too many thoughts running rampant through his mind.  
  
"I know I'm not just an experiment to him, Smith."  
  
In one simple sentence, Face had spelled out everything. The way Face felt he was being treated; the way he felt toward Hannibal, probably the whole team. Worse, that Face knew the extortionist. And, together with everything else that had happened, Hannibal knew who it had to be, too, now. All the pieces fell into place. And it scared the hell out of him.  
  
He heard the door open, Murdock's voice talking to BA. A moment later, Frankie returned. The murmur of voices continued for another few moments, and then it was quiet as they all waited for Hannibal to decide what to do.  
  
He turned and faced his men, and was startled to see how unsure they all looked.  
  
"Okay, guys, let's go meet this guy."  
  
Murdock's uncertainty turned to disbelief. "Hannibal, we gotta find Face..."  
  
"Exactly, Captain. And the only one that can find him now is our thief."  
  
*****  
  
He sat comfortably on the catwalk, casually looking around the small theater. He'd gone over every inch of the place, knew exactly where he could go, where he could get trapped. There was plenty of time before the Team arrived. Even if they came early, which they probably would. He looked at his watch; they could be outside right now, 'casing the joint'. He liked the phrase. Sounded 'tough', like gangsters. He smiled. Thinking back to playing cops and robbers as a kid. He figured that memory could be true. He'd seen pictures, family pictures, himself and two brothers. Wondered, briefly, if they really were dead now. So many things he didn't know. So many things he'd been told, but didn't know if he could believe. That was something he could work on, when this was all over and done with.  
  
Something the two of them could do. Find out what was truth, what was lie. Or maybe they'd just say the hell with it, and move on, make their own future, the hell with the past. Could it really be that easy? For himself, probably. If he ever did check on his past, he wasn't sure he'd believe anything he found. So many things that could be faked.  
  
He thought, again, about those first few months up here, just the two of them. It was a little foggy, here and there, but he remembered most of it. There were parts of it he didn't like, naturally. Things he would have done differently. But what he remembered, and held on to, was being happy. Content. At peace.  
  
Would he feel that way again, when this was all over with? Could he? Could either of them?  
  
He heard the door below opening. Show time...  
  
*****  
  
Carla shut the door to her hotel room and leaned against it. This was definitely not going the way it was supposed to. Peck had not reacted at all the way she had expected. Once he knew about the consequences to the team, Carla had expected him to fully cooperate. It was a matter of loyalty, after all. One didn't turn one's back on years and years of friendship just to protect someone you'd known for a few months.  
  
But instead of a promise of cooperation, Peck had just gone silent. Anything she said to him after dropping her bombshell had been ignored. Finally, she had given up and dropped him back at the hotel. He had not said one word to her.  
  
Now all she could do was wait and see what he did. Stockwell had sent her here after the fiasco with the Senator. To 'keep an eye on things'. She was thankful that he had no idea what was really going on here. He had not concerned himself with Barish until the end, and had had little interest in Peck afterward, once Smith made it clear he would be staying with the team. If Carla didn't know better, she would have sworn being around Peck made him feel guilty. Or at least, uncomfortable.  
  
The problem was, of course, that the longer it took for Peck to wake up and smell the coffee, the more damage was done, and the harder it would be to explain things to Stockwell. Like why she hadn't told him immediately who the extortionist was. Which she couldn't do without explaining how he'd managed to slip from her grasp in the first place.  
  
Not for the first time, she wished Barish had taken Santana. It would have been so much easier...  
  
*****  
  
He watched the men enter and fan out across the floor of the theater. He knew immediately that something was wrong. Face wasn't with them. They could have left him outside, he supposed, to watch the exits, but he had made it clear they were all to come inside.  
  
"You're short, Smith. Where's pretty boy?" He cringed when he said that, even knowing Face would understand.  
  
Smith looked up, searching the upper reaches of the theater for the source of the voice.  
  
"I thought you could tell me."  
  
Uh oh.  
  
"Sloppy, Smith. Can't keep track of your own people?"  
  
"Cut the crap, buddy. I know who you are. And I know Face does, too. He left, about an hour ago."  
  
Damn.  
  
"What do you mean, left?"  
  
"I mean, walked out. Left the team. I gotta say, you did a damn good job on him."  
  
"I'm not the one you should blame for that, Smith. I'm not the one who made him deny who he was. ALL of who he was."  
  
There was silence for a moment. He couldn't see Smith's face clearly, but he knew the shot had hit home.  
  
"All right. I'm not going to get into a blame game here. But if you know where he is, you'll convince him to come back. He needs help. He won't get it on the run with you."  
  
"Help, huh? Like he's been getting? I don't think so, Smith."  
  
He crept carefully toward his escape door. Smith was still talking, trying to convince him to turn Face over to them. Let him talk. He regretted that he wouldn't be able to make this part of the plan work, but he had more important things to take care of now.  
  
He had to find Face.  
  
*****  
  
"I know what you're trying to do. And I can understand it, believe me. But it's not going to change anything. Not for you. Not for him. And Face can't help you like he is now. It's time to give it up."  
  
The theater remained silent. Hannibal looked around, trying to detect any movement, any sound. Nothing.  
  
"I think our goose has flown the coop, Hannibal." Murdock, too, was looking around, squinting against the lights.  
  
"BA, Frankie - check outside." The two men hurried to the exit, but Hannibal didn't hold out much hope. This guy was too good.  
  
Murdock moved up next to him. "This could be a good thing, Hannibal. I mean, for him to leave like that, he must have gone after him. And no matter what he's been doing to Stockwell, he's not going to let anything happen to Face. You know that."  
  
"That doesn't mean he's going to come home, Murdock. It may mean they go underground. And if they do that, we may never see him again."  
  
*****  
  
He walked up slowly, but making sure Face heard him. His friend was sitting on the bench, not far from the pavilion, looking out at the small lake.  
  
"How did the meeting go?" He didn't turn around, just kept staring out at the water.  
  
"It didn't. Smith told me you'd left them, so I came here."  
  
"He knows who you are, then."  
  
"Yeah. He would've found out soon anyway. Doesn't matter."  
  
He sat down on the bench, close but not too close.  
  
"Face, I..."  
  
"Don't call me that." There was no anger in the command, merely resignation. He looked up at the sky, then back to the lake. "I remember the day I was adopted. A family I'd lived with for a while, I don't know how long exactly. The day the adoption was finalized, my new dad brought out this brand new two-wheeler. He taught me how to ride it. My dad, pushing me along from behind, letting go, but running along beside me in case I got into trouble. And he had this big grin on his face when I finally made it up and down the block without tipping over...He had this soft, rumbly kind of voice. That's what I remember."  
  
Face picked up a stick from the ground, tapped it absently against the bench. "The truth is I never got adopted, I never had a dad and I don't know how I learned to ride a bike." He threw the stick in the water, disturbing the ducks. "Dumb. Sitting here trying to remember how I learned to ride a fucking bicycle."  
  
They sat quietly for a few more moments. Then Face felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at his friend, who stood up then. Looking down at him, smiling.  
  
"C'mon, Sam. Let's go home."


	12. Chapter 12

Hannibal slammed the phone down. He knew it. He just knew it. Carla was out of the office. Her secretary would have her call him back. Right.  
  
He yanked a cigar out of his pocket, and just stood there, staring at it. For the first time he realized how many times he would just stand there, waiting for Face to light his cigars for him, forgetting that it was no longer a habit for his XO. Just another one of those little things that he and the team hadn't even thought about, but were totally foreign to Face. The little things he wouldn't want to bother Hannibal about. And that just distanced him more and more from the team.  
  
An experiment. Face had been closer to the truth than anyone had realized. The whole idea of bringing him back to the team had, in reality, been an experiment. To see if they could get him back. To make him come back. And they had all thought the only way to do that was make him push away the life he 'knew'. That life was a lie, so forget it. Dump it. Even that damn psychologist Stockwell had set up. Whose only goal was to make Face remember.  
  
Murdock stood at the doorway. "Well?"  
  
"She's out of the office."  
  
"Out of the office, or out of town?"  
  
"I'll give you two guesses." He looked at the cigar again, and shoved it angrily back in his pocket.  
  
"So, now what?"  
  
"Wait until that...woman...calls back. We have to come up with something to tell Stockwell, and, like it or not, she's going to help. She oughta be pretty adept at lying to him by now."  
  
"You really think she'll go along with us?"  
  
"I think she's going to realize that things have gone too damn far not to. If she doesn't help, she knows we'll have no choice but to go Stockwell with everything. He's the only other way we have to get the resources we're going to need."  
  
*****  
  
"So who's this?" Face bent down, examining Ernie's lair.  
  
"Oh," Randy chuckled, "Sam, meet Ernie. Ernie, this is Sam."  
  
"Hello, Ernie. Nice to meet you." He straightened and looked around the apartment. "So, this is home now? Bit different from a freezer box."  
  
"Yeah, but it'll do." He opened the refrigerator, frowning. "Well, looks like we'll have to order in pizza tonight. That okay by you?"  
  
"Sure." Sam wandered over to the couch, looking out the window, eye level with the sidewalk. He could see disembodied legs walking by out front. There seemed to be an adequate number of young women in the neighborhood. "Nice view."  
  
"You ain't seen nothin yet." Grinning broadly, Randy walked over to join him. "If you're up early enough, all the joggers go by here to get to the park."  
  
"I can live with that," he chuckled. "Hannibal always said..." He stopped.  
  
Randy shook his head. "C'mon, don't do that here, okay? Here, we know there's another life we have to deal with. It's not 'either or'. The only way to get through this is to recognize that."  
  
"What if I don't want that other life?"  
  
Randy shrugged. "I liked you without it, y'know. The point is, it's up to you. Not me, not Hannibal, not Stockwell." He grinned at Sam again. "You know, we're really two of the luckiest people in the world. Because from here on out, we can be whoever we want to be. What's in the past, any past, doesn't mean a thing. The only thing we have to worry about is the future. Now, you ready for pizza or you want to burn your brain a little more?"  
  
Sam chuckled. "I think we need an extra large. I haven't eaten since breakfast."  
  
*****  
  
"The General won't know Peck is missing unless one of us tells him. And I certainly have no intention of doing so."  
  
Carla stood calmly in the team's hotel room. She hadn't bothered to call, or pretend to be in Langley. There was a point where subterfuge just wasn't worth it.  
  
"So we just go along like everything's fine and dandy, huh?" Murdock glared at her from the couch.  
  
"As far as Stockwell is concerned, yes."  
  
"And what about finding Face?"  
  
"As Colonel Smith has already figured out, you find the extortionist, you'll find Face. Consider it an additional incentive."  
  
"Lady, you've already pushed your luck as far as it's going to go, so I'd watch the flippancy." Hannibal straightened up from the wall he'd been leaning against. "You've got resources at your disposal. You're going to start using them."  
  
"Colonel, be reasonable. If it were that simple, we would've found Randy a long time ago. Long before he was able to inflict any damage. All I can really do is get you the full list that General Stockwell received, along with the likely financial interests they represent."  
  
"You can also explain a few things. Like why you felt the need to talk to Face this morning, and tell him things he really didn't need to know yet."  
  
"Colonel, the whole point in bringing in the team was to get Peck on the trail. He knows Randy better than anyone. He should have been able to find him almost immediately. Which he did, but for some reason, he chose not to let anyone in on that little fact. Not knowing that, of course, I felt it necessary to give him a little added push. I meant it only as a reminder, not realizing that you, Colonel, had chosen not to tell him something of such a serious nature."  
  
"You didn't think you should check with me, first? No, because you didn't think it necessary to tell me who the quarry was. Just let us find our way in the dark."  
  
Carla had the grace to blush, a little. "There were reasons for that, Colonel. Mainly because Randy should not have escaped in the first place. Not that I had any control over that, but, you know how the General can be."  
  
"In other words, you were trying to save your sorry ass."  
  
Carla drew herself up. "Recriminations are really counter-productive at this point, Colonel Smith. There is one other thing I can provide you with, and that is a copy of all the reports I received from Dr. Barish. Since Randy seems to be going back to more familiar territory, they might prove of some value to you." She moved suddenly and quickly toward the door. "I'll have them dropped off later tonight."  
  
"One last thing, Carla." She stopped and looked back, irritated. "What happens when we catch up with them?"  
  
"Randy will go back with me. He's still of some value to the organization, and the General won't care who was behind it as long as the extortion stops. I'll come up with a plausible story."  
  
"And Face?"  
  
"Well, unless you want to explain to the General why you're suddenly short one man, I suggest you keep him. And hopefully do a better job containing him than you have so far."  
  
With that, Carla swept out of the room.


	13. Chapter 13

He woke early in the morning. He hadn't slept well at all, and was hoping his dreams, if one could call them that, hadn't disturbed Randy in the next room. They really hadn't been dreams, just flashes of this and that. Which had made them all the more disquieting. Things were getting mixed up together in a hodgepodge of images. His mother, dancing with Smith at his parents' anniversary party. Murdock giving him that damn bike. His father grinning at him as they dropped from a helicopter into the jungle. It had been like that all night.  
  
He pushed himself out of bed and stood, looking around the bedroom. He smiled, immediately feeling more relaxed. Randy had gotten a two bedroom apartment. No sleeping on the couch until he found his own place. Nobody wondering how long he'd be staying. Randy hadn't asked, Sam hadn't suggested. It just...was.  
  
Just like the money. Sitting on the couch, eating pizza, drinking beer, Randy had given him the account book - with two names on it and ID's to match - and shown him the balance. Then they had discussed what to do with it. What they would need to keep liquid, what they should invest, even 'mad money'. As far as Randy was concerned, it was 'their' money. They had both earned it. Sam knew he would have done the same.  
  
That was something he hadn't felt with the others, that togetherness, that oneness. More often, he'd felt like a tin cup thrown in with the fine china. Whether it was him, or them, he didn't know. Maybe it was just the circumstances. They wanted - no, they demanded - their old teammate back, and he couldn't, or wouldn't, give that to them. And then discovering that they controlled what he should know...he was able to think more calmly about it now. In fact, other than those damn dreams, he'd felt more centered since leaving them than he had in months. No longer wondering what was going on, no longer under a microscope. Now he could think, he could plan, he could execute. He could look forward, not back. Now he was...whole.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal woke early. He had tossed and turned most of the night, which was unusual for him. He wasn't the kind of man who let problems take over. He was disciplined to sleeping when he had to, and working through problems systematically. Not always practically, but systematically. The problem was, there was no system to work with this time. He had to wait for the other guy to make the next move. And while he would know the target, he had little or no idea where or how the move would be made.  
  
He'd poured over the reports Carla had sent over. The list from Randy - God, he hated the very name - was precise and well-timed. It was obvious he fully intended to bring Stockwell down, and down hard. But then the list shifted. New organizations, new people he'd never heard of. Until he got down a little further, and realized that Dr. Barish's name appeared periodically, listed as either a subordinate to someone else or as an associate. That's when he understood the whole picture. The strength of the motivation. And why Face had acted the way he had.  
  
He hadn't said anything to the others yet, and possibly that was the reason for his poor night's sleep. He was used to discussing the operation with his men, getting their input. But he hadn't this time; he'd wanted time to digest the information himself first. And that was like swallowing bile.  
  
It was bad enough that they had to deal with Randy. Hannibal didn't know him except peripherally, but he knew the type. And from talking to Kurt and Daryl, he knew exactly how dangerous the man could be. From what they had said, Hannibal knew Randy had been heavily involved in covert warfare. He probably knew more ways to kill a man than even Hannibal. And he'd proven on that beach that it didn't bother him one damn bit.  
  
This wasn't going to be just a retrieval, as Stockwell thought. This was blowback, with his lieutenant right in the middle of it. And the hell of it was, that's exactly where Face wanted to be.  
  
*****  
  
Randy heard him moving around the apartment. Not just getting acquainted with it. Getting to know it. He listened for a moment. Yeah, going out the backdoor now. He'd be checking the back hallway, the exit there. Then the layout of the building, every floor, before going to the front. When Sam returned, he'd not only know exactly where every exit was, but which way to turn, where the barriers were, and any possible hazards to a safe and speedy retreat. Randy could have told him, but Sam would have checked them out anyway. Being told something, and seeing it for yourself, were two different things.  
  
Randy was feeling good this morning, even though Sam's dreams had awakened him periodically through the night. He hadn't gone in. That would only have made Sam feel worse. It would take a while before he'd really settle in. Come to terms. God knew it had taken Randy long enough, and he hadn't had all the distractions Sam had. If he kept having problems, then they'd have to work on it. But Randy was confident that soon he'd be back on an even keel. They both would.  
  
He figured they'd stay here in the Cities for a while. They both liked it. Maybe when winter came on, they'd go somewhere else. The Bahamas, maybe. Or overseas. They could live in a nice warm climate, still make a living. Doing what they did best. Yeah, over there they could make a damn good living. Or maybe just retire. Enjoy the good life.  
  
But first, they had business to take care of. He wished Barish was still around. God, he would have liked to get his hands around that bastard's neck. He'd make it so slow...well, he was out of luck there. But Sam would have Stockwell. They'd bring down his organization first, and then... He smiled.  
  
He wondered how long the General would last.  
  
*****  
  
"What's next on the list, Murdock?" Hannibal was staring out the window, cigar smoke circling around his head.  
  
"Just a name - Otto Reich - and a date - three days from now."  
  
"Financial?"  
  
"I'm not sure - just a note - House Foreign Affairs Committee."  
  
"All right. Check with Stockwell's office. Find out who's on the committee, who the chairman is, who has his ear."  
  
Murdock sighed. "Okay, Hannibal." He headed into one bedroom to make the call.  
  
"BA, we'll have to get to D.C. before the deadline."  
  
"No problem, Hannibal. Van's all checked out, ready to go."  
  
"Good. Frankie, get some maps of D.C. We need to know where these guys' offices are and where they meet. All exits. Where the guards are."  
  
"That's gonna take some time, Hannibal."  
  
"Call Carla. Let her earn her salary for a change."  
  
Frankie grinned. He loved dealing with Carla, much to her disgust.  
  
Murdock came back out a few minutes. "Stockwell will have the info to us later this evening. He'll also have rooms set up for us when we get there."  
  
"Okay, Murdock." Hannibal continued staring out of the window.  
  
"Hannibal?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What if Face comes back while we're out East?"  
  
Hannibal turned to look at Murdock. "Where do you think Randy's going to be in three days, Murdock?"  
  
"D.C."  
  
"And do you think Face will know that?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"So where do you think Face will be?"  
  
Murdock sighed heavily. "Okay, Colonel."  
  
"Murdock, if he wants to find us, he will. Otherwise, like Carla said. We find Randy, we find Face. So let's make sure we find Randy."


	14. Chapter 14

"So when do we leave?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning. Our flight should get us in just before lunch. There is a slight change in plans. We're going to take a more 'back-door' approach this time."  
  
Sam grinned widely as Randy outlined his changes. He'd never heard of the "Senate Subcommittee on Narcotics, Terrorism and International Operations", but he liked the sound of the guy running it. And neither Stockwell nor the team would expect them to go this route.  
  
"It's not fair, you know, changing the rules in the middle of the game." He mockingly scowled at his partner-in-crime.  
  
"I know - but it's much more fun."  
  
This part of the plan didn't involve finances, which hopefully would have thrown Stockwell off kilter a bit. There were so many people the two could go to, when it came to Otto Reich. But again, Reich wasn't the real threat to Stockwell. The earlier demands had caused financial headaches. This was the first serious step toward bringing down Stockwell's empire. The political ramifications would be tremendous, not only at home, but abroad.  
  
And they had just gotten started.  
  
*****  
  
The team had arrived in D.C. that afternoon. Hannibal was spending a great deal of time on the secure phone to Stockwell. There were too many possible targets on the committee; the team wouldn't stand a chance of covering them all. Which meant involving the Ables. Which meant headaches up the wazoo.  
  
First of all, Stockwell was insisting that if Ables would be used, he would be in charge of the operation. Hannibal told him, quite bluntly, that the team would go back to Langley in that case. The rest of the team sat around the hotel room, listening and trying to suppress their grins. There was no greater entertainment than listening to Hannibal and Stockwell go head to head.  
  
Eventually, of course, Hannibal won out. He reminded Stockwell that if there were any problems, the General did not want to be directly connected to any of this. Reluctantly, Stockwell gave in, and set up a meeting with Hannibal and the Ables the General would be assigning to him. After that, the team spent their time going over the maps and lists of people they would have to watch. It was going to be a massive operation, and Hannibal, knowing he would be working with people who were not used to his methods, was trying hard to come up with a workable plan that wouldn't confuse everyone.  
  
It was late in the evening when he had finally come up with the final plan and assignments. His own team would be handling the most likely contacts. The Ables were dispersed among the other lesser players. After checking out the myriad buildings, offices, and exits, Hannibal had had to move to a one-on-one plan. There were just too many places to stake out.  
  
The Team was to meet with the Ables early in the morning, so they hit the sack early. Hannibal stared at the ceiling for a long time before giving up and quietly getting up. He stood on the balcony outside their room and stared across the lights of D.C. He wasn't fond of the city, but it could be beautiful, seen from the right place.  
  
Naturally, his thoughts drifted to his missing lieutenant. He wondered if they were already in the city, or waiting until the last minute to make their appearance. He knew damn well the two of them would be together. He didn't know if it made him angry or sad to know that Face would be a willing participant in this. He thought about the outburst about those damn sentences, and it crossed his mind that Face may try to talk Randy out of this scheme of his. It was possible, but that would indicate a strong loyalty to the team. Strong enough to overcome Face's need for revenge. Or maybe he saw it as justice. Either way, Hannibal didn't think Face was that attached to the team to try stopping Randy. Hell, he knew it.  
  
He knew now that they had made a huge error with Face, right from the start. He should have had time to himself, with the right doctor, to accept what had been done to him. They shouldn't have brought him back to the team so quickly, insisted on pushing him into the old routine so fast. And they damn sure shouldn't have tried to make him ignore his time with Randy.  
  
Maybe if they had allowed him to be both Sam and Face, had accepted that Sam was as much a part of his life as the team, maybe...  
  
Hannibal sighed and wandered back in to the room. Too many maybe's. Way too many...  
  
*****  
  
Sam dozed through most of the flight to D.C. He didn't like to let himself really sleep; he wasn't sure if the dreams would come again or not. He knew they came every night. Like clockwork. More of the same kind of mix-ups as that first night. They were disturbing, and yet, there was something about them that was...reassuring?  
  
Ridiculous. How could seeing his mother with Smith be reassuring? Maybe it was just the fact that he could see his mother's face so clearly. Who she was with didn't really matter, as long as he could see her. The same with his father. They couldn't look so real, night after night, looking the same each night...not if they were just images those doctors had given him. And yet, everyone kept telling him that that's just exactly what they were. Just images. Fakes. That they had never existed.  
  
Was that possible? Really? Could a bunch of psycho-babblists make up a whole lifetime like that? Well, given the right stimuli, he supposed it was possible. It certainly was, done the way they had with Randy. But he hadn't been drugged. Not like that. But then, he was different from Randy in one major respect.  
  
Randy had had a family.  
  
According to the team, to the psych, to everyone he'd met since California, he had never had a family, had no one to leave behind. No one of 'significance'. And, according to this last shrink, that's what had made it possible to make it all work without drugs. Because, subconsciously, he wanted to believe the past they gave him.  
  
And that's why the so-called resistance in accepting the truth. His real past. It wasn't as 'all-American-apple-pie' as the lies. They had almost convinced him. Almost. They had tried, he had tried. Maybe, if they hadn't been so hell-bent on making him forget about Randy. If he had been allowed to see him, talk to him. It had been frustrating and confusing. Why not let him see Randy? What were they so afraid of?  
  
So he'd gone back to this A-Team, and found himself working for the very man who had supposedly turned him over to these mad scientists. And he was supposed to accept that. That was where everything started breaking down for him. These guys were supposed to have known him for almost half his life, were supposed to be practically like family, and yet they wanted him to work for the man that... how the hell did they think that would ever work?  
  
There was only one way. They thought they could convince him to believe their lies. They would make him think they were telling the truth, and everything he remembered was a lie. Make him fit into their history. Their history. Not his. Theirs.  
  
He'd thought perhaps it was Carla and Stockwell pulling the strings. Making the decisions about Randy. But then Smith had admitted that he, and the rest of the team, were deliberately not telling him things. Things he should have been told, if they were really part of his past.  
  
If it was his past, he should have been told. If it wasn't his past, then it wouldn't matter. But it was part of the team's past, and he was supposed to be part of the team, so...but if it was all a lie...  
  
He was getting a headache. A bad headache. He couldn't figure out any more what he should believe. It seemed like everyone was lying to him. Smith, Murdock, Baracus, Santana - all intent on doing Stockwell's bidding. Just continue the experiment but with a set of 'facts' to make up for the fiasco in LA. Adjust to salvage what they could. Make him accept the new story.  
  
The faces of his mother and father. So clear. So crystal clear. The memories of the team, so blurred, so hard to find...  
  
He couldn't believe them. Not any more.  
  
*****  
  
The next morning Randy walked briskly up the street, looking for a particular cafe. He had made this appointment yesterday afternoon, right from the airport. The senator was a bit skeptical about making the appointment, but once Randy had given him certain information, he was willing to meet.  
  
He found the cafe, and stepped inside, quickly scanning the occupants. He saw him at the back, in a booth. Randy sauntered in his direction, watching the other diners. No one paid any attention to him. He reached the booth, and without saying a word, slid into the seat across from the young senator. They looked at each other, carefully taking the other's measure.  
  
"You have something for me?"  
  
Randy took a single sheet of folded paper from his jacket pocket and slid it over. The senator opened it and quickly glanced over it. A deep frown swept over his face.  
  
"You're sure of this?"  
  
"Dead sure."  
  
"Where's the rest?"  
  
"That'll cost you."  
  
The senator stared at him, repulsed. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"I can do my own digging. Our business is finished." The senator got up abruptly and headed for the cash register at the front. Randy stood, stretched, and sat down again.  
  
At the register, the senator had just paid for his meal when another man stepped up, stumbled and fell against the senator. Apologizing profusely, the man straightened the senator's rumpled jacket and tie before backing off. The senator smiled absently at him and proceeded out the door.  
  
Ten minutes later Randy was back at their hotel, waiting in the lobby. Sam showed up a few minutes later. They grinned at each other.  
  
"Okay?" Randy already knew the answer, of course.  
  
"No problem. Inside pocket, safe and sound."  
  
"Good. I was afraid for a minute he was going ask me how much, but he didn't. Just got mad and left."  
  
"You're sure he'll do something about it? He'll put that information to use?"  
  
"Positive." They looked at each and grinned again, giddy with the ease of the operation. Not a sign of the A-Team or anyone else. They were probably running themselves silly trying to keep track of the members of the Foreign Affairs Committee.  
  
"So, ever seen the Lincoln Memorial?"


	15. Chapter 15

Tired of rebuilding it over and over, BA angrily shoved the alarm clock away; in the process he nearly knocked Murdock's pop bottle off the table. Murdock grabbed it angrily, shoving away from the table and stalking into the living room. Frankie, who had been trying to watch television, wisely decided to check out the view from the balcony. As he stepped out into the cooler air, he hoped Hannibal would get back soon. Very soon.  
  
It was their fourth day in D.C., and so far there hadn't been a sign of either Randy or Face. None of the people they and the Ables had been watching had been approached by anything other than normal methods. And yet they all knew that there would be ramifications from the missed deadline. The members of the team had been alternating with various Ables in the surveillance, meeting back at the hotel room that was their base of operations to compare notes; it was time-consuming, boring and stressful. Nerves were at the straining point.  
  
The door to their hotel room literally slammed open. Even Frankie heard it from the balcony. That couldn't be good. He stepped cautiously back inside. One look at Hannibal's face said it all. They'd been had, once again.  
  
"They didn't even go after our Committee members. They side-stepped us. Gave the information to a Senator Kerry. Stockwell got the news this morning - friend of a friend of a friend. Otherwise we'd have never known."  
  
"How does that fit with Stockwell's finances? I don't understand..."  
  
"They're hitting him in a different arena this time." The use of the plural wasn't missed by anyone. "The information, in the hands of this Senator, is going to cause repercussions internationally. And since this particular information could only have come from Stockwell..."  
  
"Shit." Murdock threw his pop bottle into the garbage. "And I suppose he's long gone, too. Who knows where..."  
  
"Not exactly. Carla got a photo by courier this morning." Hannibal pulled the picture from his pocket, tossing it angrily on the table. The others gathered around and stared at it.  
  
Randy and Face, in front of the Jefferson Memorial, smiling and waving at the camera, typical tourists. Murdock picked it up, glanced at the back. Saw the note, with yesterday's date on it.  
  
"Long time, no see..."  
  
*****  
  
They had planned on staying in the D.C. area for a few days, sight-seeing, but by the third day it was obvious Sam was not comfortable being that close to Langley. His laughter was becoming forced and infrequent, and the dreams at night were taking on a more nightmarish quality. He began letting Randy make all the decisions without a murmur. Randy got tickets for the first flight back to Minneapolis that morning.  
  
Sam relaxed noticeably when Randy told him they were leaving. It only took a short time for them to pack and get to the airport. It wasn't until they arrived at the ticket desk that things started falling apart.  
  
Sam stopped short, looking confused.  
  
"What's the matter, Sam? Forget something?"  
  
"No...that's...Beller Airline?"  
  
"Yeah. It was the only one that had seats available. Something wrong?"  
  
"No. No, nothing. Just...it sounds familiar." Sam shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Never mind. Deja vue all over again."  
  
Randy smiled back, but watched him. There was something odd there.  
  
Sam seemed to relax again as the plane taxied down the runway and took off. He watched out the window as they gained altitude. They soon moved in heavy clouds, and Sam leaned back in his seat to sleep. Randy picked up a magazine and lazily started browsing. Soon he nodded off.  
  
It must have been about half-way through the flight when he woke up. He wasn't sure what it was, at first. Then he heard someone speaking, whispering, next to him. Sam. He looked over in alarm.  
  
Sam was scrunched down in his seat, a brows furrowed, staring ahead as if trying to make out something just out of his vision. Randy couldn't make out the fast, staccato whisperings. Taking a quick look around him, he reached over and gently squeezed Sam's arm.  
  
"Sam? Sam. What's going on?" He spoke low, but firmly.  
  
The whispering stopped, but Sam continued to stare ahead. Louder, but still quietly, he answered. "We're being hijacked."  
  
"What!?"  
  
"Hijacked. A man named Jackson. He's the leader. They're posing as crew members."  
  
Randy glanced around him. No one seemed edgy, or on guard. He hadn't seen any crew other than the stewardesses, but they certainly hadn't seemed nervous. Sam must have seen something that tipped him off.  
  
"How do you know, Sam?"  
  
"They made demands. We traded Smith for the passengers."  
  
"Smith!"  
  
"He posed as Beller. And I...I was the accountant..."  
  
Suddenly Sam didn't seem so sure of himself. Randy looked closer at him. Aw, no. Sam's eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be looking much farther ahead than the seat in front of him. Randy knew immediately what was happening.  
  
"No, Sam, that's not now. That happened...a long time ago." Randy didn't know if it had or not, but he had to play by Sam's rules right now.  
  
For a moment, he didn't think the other man had accepted it, or even understood it. But gradually, Sam began to focus, his eyes darting around nervously. He stopped when he saw Randy beside him. He suddenly went pale, and Randy could see he was starting to panic.  
  
"Randy, what the hell's going on? I saw...so clearly...like it was happening right now. Are you sure...?"  
  
"I'm sure, Sam. Nothing's going on right now except a routine flight. It must have been another dream. That's all.'  
  
"But it seemed so real, Randy. How could it be so real, when it never happened?"  
  
"You know it never happened? Are you sure?"  
  
"Damn it, yes, I'm sure! None of that crap happened! I was never with those guys! Never!" Sam's voice was rising, and nearby passengers were starting to look at them.  
  
"Okay, okay, calm down, Sam. Just calm down." He looked at the other passengers, smiling reassuringly. "Look, let's just not talk about it right now. When we land, we'll get home and we can talk it all out, okay? But we have to be cool right now, not draw attention. We don't want any problems with our plans, right?"  
  
Sam immediately quieted. No, we can't jeopardize the plans. No way. He nodded at Randy, picked up a magazine and studiously started turning the pages.  
  
Randy sighed in relief. Flashback or not, this was not good. Nor was it good that Sam was denying his involvement with the team. Randy knew he'd been a part of it; if Sam didn't want to be any more, that was one thing. But to convince himself it never happened, well, that was another.  
  
Their plans may take some reworking...  
  
*****  
  
The team moved back into the Langley compound later that day. There was nothing to do now until the next deadline approached, and that was nearly a week away. Hannibal didn't even look at the details. There was no point. He'd wait until a day or two before, and then he'd grill the hell out of Stockwell. No more letting the General give them only his conclusions. This time Hannibal would determine the possibilities himself.  
  
Not that he would admit it to any one else, especially the rest of his team, but Hannibal was getting discouraged. This was liking fighting shadows. Between Randy and Face, they could come up with damn near any scenario to accomplish their goals. Randy had his own specialized training, which was difficult enough to predict. But Face...not only did Face have SF training, he'd had years of tutelage under Hannibal himself. And no one could forget things that had become second nature. No way.  
  
And that was when it hit him. Maybe he was fighting shadows. But most of those were his own. He'd had much the same training as Randy, and he'd taught Face practically everything he knew. Shadow boxing. Just look in the mirror and see what was coming next. He chuckled, lighting a cigar.  
  
All he had to do was outwit himself.


	16. Chapter 16

"And where is our good Lieutenant this morning?"  
  
Stockwell glared at Hannibal, but the entire group felt the anger and frustrations pouring from the General. He was scrambling to hold his organization together, and they all knew it.  
  
"He headed back to Minneapolis to follow up on a couple leads we had." The lie came easily to Hannibal's lips. It wasn't that far from the truth.  
  
"On his own? You think that wise, Colonel?"  
  
"Face's problems are memories, not doing his job." Again, that was true. He'd proved it.  
  
Stockwell didn't look satisfied, but it was obvious he was going to get no further. "Just make sure he's back in time for the next deadline. I'm having every available agent in the field for this one."  
  
"I wanted to discuss that next one with you, Stockwell. I want all the details this time, not just your hunches."  
  
"I'll give you what you need to know..."  
  
"Not good enough, General. If I had known everything the last time, we would have known to have looked more closely at that senator. You neglected to mention he'd already been making noise about some of the people involved."  
  
That got Stockwell's attention, and neatly diverted him from the subject of Face. Hannibal maneuvered him into the den, and the others could hear them frequently raising their voices. Frankie grinned at Murdock. They all knew they would not be going into the next job blind.  
  
Frankie went back to his television. BA had interrupted his work on the van to listen to Stockwell's diatribe, but once the General and Hannibal were closeted together, he headed back outside. Murdock meandered around the living room, watching curiously as Carla sat, stone-faced, in a chair as far from Frankie as she could get. She was clearly not at ease being in the same place as both the team and Stockwell.  
  
Deciding he needed a little 'quality time' with the woman, Murdock moved casually over to her side and squatted down beside the chair. Carla pointedly ignored him.  
  
Speaking low, in case Stockwell should come out suddenly, he smiled almost kindly.  
  
"Carla, you and I really need to have a little talk. I know Hannibal came across rather strongly the other day, but I think you and I could have a civil discussion about certain, shall we say, commonalities, don't you?" If Face could hear me now, he'd be so proud.  
  
Carla looked at Murdock with something like disdain. She neither liked nor trusted Murdock, knowing full well the only reason he wasn't still in the VA was because of the General's connections. Yet another mistake he'd made trying to prove his 'integrity' to Colonel Smith.  
  
"I really disagree, Captain. There is nothing else I have to tell you."  
  
"Oh, I'm afraid I disagree, Carla. There's a lot of stuff that wasn't in those reports. I know how to read between the lines, you see. Had lots of practice at the VA."  
  
"Captain..."  
  
"Of course, I could always ask General Stockwell. He wouldn't have to know Face is gone for me to want to know certain things. About Face...about Randy. And, of course, he'd probably push me off on you, but then you'd have to tell me, or he'd wonder why you were being so...secretive. Who knows? It might even reawaken his interest in Randy."  
  
Carla sighed in frustration. "Very well, Captain. But not here, not now. I'll contact you later today when it's more prudent."  
  
"I'll look forward to it, Carla, impatiently." He smiled benignly at her as he stood and headed out the door, intent on 'helping' BA with the van. It was turning into that kind of a day...  
  
*****  
  
"Feeling better?" Randy looked in the door to the bedroom. Sam had taken some heavy duty sedatives as soon as they got back to the apartment, and slept nearly twenty-four hours straight. Now he was looking blearily up at the figure in the doorway.  
  
"Huh? Oh, yeah, soon as I find my head I'll be fine." He smiled, embarrassed. He didn't know why all that crap had run through his head on the flight, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let it happen again. Enough was enough. He was through with all that. Now they had a job to do.  
  
Randy wasn't willing to let it go that easily. "We need to talk this over, bud. And it's not just the idea that you might wig out on me in the middle of things. Stuff like that, that's not good for you, period."  
  
"So I'll just watch what I dream from now on." The attempt at humor fell flat. "Look, the next deadline is days away. Plenty of time for me to get my head on straight. It won't happen again."  
  
"C'mon, Sam, you know what's happening as well as I do. We've both seen it before. It's not going to go away on its own. The hell with the deadline. We can take whatever time we need and get you straightened out first. Stockwell can't regroup that fast."  
  
Sam was getting angry now. "There is nothing to straighten out, Randy. Okay, maybe I should have taken a couple of days to get my ducks in a row before going that close to Langley again. But I don't want to put things off with Stockwell. I want him gone."  
  
"Ain't gonna happen, Sam. Tell me this: What's going to happen the first time you see Smith? Or that pilot? Baracus. Santana. What are you going to do?"  
  
"What are you talking about? Why should anything happen? Other than I make sure they don't see me." Sam shoved himself off the bed; not a smart move, considering his head still wasn't quite connected to his body yet. His head swam, and Smith's face popped up in the middle of the waves. It startled him and it showed.  
  
"What? What's going on, Sam? C'mon, talk to me, damn it!"  
  
"It's nothing! Geez, Randy. Quit acting like I'm some sorta head case. You're as bad as..."  
  
"As Smith? Maybe he was right, Sam. He said you need help, and maybe he was right." Randy was treading on very thin ice now and he knew it. "All I'm saying is we both need to be on top of our game from now on. Things are going to be getting a lot dicier. We're not going to be leaving little gift packages on somebody's desk any more. We're talking about dealing with people who are not afraid to get their hands dirty. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't really want to get my head bashed in because yours is off in Never Never Land. Capice?"  
  
"So I won't sleep on the job and then we won't have to worry about it, okay? Jesus H. Christ, Randy! I'm not so nuts that I can't do the job. Let's not forget, I was the one taking care of you not so long ago. You want to talk head cases?"  
  
"No, I don't want to talk head cases. What I want to talk about is the A-Team. The team you were a part of for over a decade and yet you want to pretend that doesn't exist. That's what I want to talk about."  
  
"I was never..."  
  
"Bullshit! You want to see the records? Not just the 'official' ones. I can show you newspaper clippings, photos, memos, the works. It's all there, Sam. You can't just decide it didn't happen. You don't want to be part of them any more, that's fine. But you can't just wipe out those years, Sam, because they were real!"  
  
He didn't see it coming.  
  
Sam shook out his hand as he stepped over Randy and stalked out of the front door. Damn. That hand was never going to heal up if he didn't quit slamming it into things...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal was pacing the living room, slowly, methodically. He hadn't liked what Stockwell had told him. The next few names on the list were very powerful people; people Stockwell had information on which made them feel 'cooperative' toward him. What was being planned now was basically a shake-down of those people. There weren't many alternatives open to him. Or Hannibal. The most obvious - warning the targets - was rife with problems. Not the least of which could be someone - like Face - getting seriously hurt or killed. Another possibility was, again, warning them but using them to set a trap for the two men. And again, it left a lot of room for the undesirable outcomes. Third, they could set up their own trap, letting the targets remain bait but without telling them. Last, they could just let it happen. After all, these people were not exactly innocent by-standers.  
  
Only one of the four possibilities allowed Stockwell to retain these people within his 'circle of friends'. The only problem, from Stockwell's point of view, was that the team so far had an abysmal record of stopping the extortionist from getting to their targets. And Hannibal couldn't disagree with him. Even without telling him that now their chances of success would be even slimmer.  
  
In the end, Stockwell was willing to try the third ploy - once. If they failed, Stockwell would have no choice but to use one of the first two. It would cost the General the use of that particular target - there would be no way the man would cooperate once he knew the information on him had been 'lost' anyway - but, in Stockwell's eyes, stopping the threat of losing anything more because of the extortionist was worth it.  
  
Hannibal thought about his earlier optimism. Outwit himself. Piece of cake, right? Right.  
  
After all, he'd taught Face everything he knew. He hadn't necessarily taught him everything Hannibal knew.


	17. Chapter 17

Sam walked around Loring Park for what seemed like hours. At first it was just to wear down the anger; then it was just because he didn't want to go back to the apartment. The more he thought about it, the more ashamed he felt for hitting Randy. For the way he'd talked to him. He knew Randy, however misguided, was just trying to help. Randy was just...misinformed. That little episode aboard the plane was just the result of an overworked imagination. Being too close, too soon, to Langley and the people there. He was quite sure he'd heard of Beller Airlines in some context over the years. It was nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
He left the park, wandering along the streets, thinking about the so-called evidence Randy had told him about. Clippings were meaningless; the press was easily fooled. Photos could be faked, as could documents. Randy should know that. Where had he gotten all that information? Had to have been from Stockwell or Barish. And that should have told him right there it was faked. Sam shook his head. He hadn't thought Randy would be so gullible.  
  
That didn't change the fact that Sam had behaved badly. You don't hit your best friend. He had to find some way of making it up to him. And then he saw it and a huge grin spread over his face. How many times had they passed by the Guthrie Theater and Randy had wistfully said he'd like to see a real play. Well, now he would.  
  
Ten minutes later Sam was hurrying back to the apartment. These tickets, coupled with a sincere apology, would put them back where they belonged.  
  
*****  
  
"Okay, so who's this guy? Why's he so important to Stockwell?" Murdock was staring at a rather fuzzy photograph. A man, big moustache, longish hair, surrounded by a lot of muscle.  
  
"Tommy Fiallos. Small-time hood, big-time connections. The usual - drugs, prostitution, porn."  
  
"And Stockwell's keeping him on ice? Why?"  
  
"Because, like I said, Tommy has big-time connections. Access to information that helps Stockwell keep on top of things like local politics in South America. Through Tommy, Stockwell can keep the drug-runners rattled, and also keep track of who's the latest up-and-coming dictator."  
  
"So why would Randy want to put him out of business? Sounds like he's more useful than criminal."  
  
"He's connected with Stockwell. Apparently that's all that matters to them. If they can hurt the General through Tommy, they will."  
  
"I wish you'd quit including Face like that, Hannibal. We still don't know for sure that he's really with Randy, or that he's participating willingly." Murdock scowled almost as well as BA.  
  
"I'm being realistic, Murdock. I suggest you start doing the same. Now, we know they're going after Tommy next. Obviously, the objective has to be extortion. Threats to reveal that he's a snitch to his confederates. What the exchange for silence will be, I don't know exactly. I'm assuming something Tommy will understand - money. The amount won't really matter, except it will have to be enough to ensure he takes them seriously. Naturally, the first thing Tommy is going to do is contact Stockwell. That's when we'll get the details. And that's when we put our little plan into motion."  
  
"What's the plan, Hannibal?" BA spoke up for the first time. He didn't want to talk about Face; that was still too raw for him. Get on to the job.  
  
"Very simple, really. In exchange for information on his drug-dealing buddies, Tommy will be offered a spot in the protected witness program; the deal will include his not mentioning Stockwell. Not that any one would believe him, any way, but it makes Stockwell feel better."  
  
"So how does that get us any closer to Randy?" Murdock was getting into the spirit of the plan now, despite himself.  
  
"Randy will have set up a meeting with Tommy. Tommy will tell Stockwell. Stockwell will tell us and we'll be there waiting."  
  
"And Randy's not going to think of Tommy contacting Stockwell?" Murdock suddenly lost his enthusiasm.  
  
"Of course he is. He'll be expecting a trap. Instead, he'll get exactly what he's looking for. Tommy Fiallos." Hannibal grinned at Frankie.  
  
"Oh, now, wait a minute, Johnny! We've been through this before, remember? I'm not looking forward to having my head handed to me by a freaking killer!"  
  
"Relax, Frankie. Tommy's very careful about photographs - that fuzzy piece of shit there is one of the better ones, even for Stockwell. Randy's not going to have any idea you're not Tommy."  
  
"But what about Face?"  
  
There was a short silence before Hannibal spoke again. "I don't think you'll have to worry about him, Frankie. I think, under the circumstances, Randy's going to keep Face in the background for a while. He's too good a tactician to put Face into a...critical situation this soon." Another silence. "Frankly, I don't think Face would recognize you any way. I don't think he'll let himself." Hannibal looked at the floor before standing and walking determinedly out of the room.  
  
*****  
  
Sam opened the door slowly, after making enough noise in the hallway to make sure Randy knew someone was coming. He poked his head in the door.  
  
"Randy?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Nervously, he stepped into the living room, closing the door firmly behind him, hearing the lock catch.  
  
"Randy?"  
  
Damn, where was he? Shit, Sam hadn't hit him that hard, had he? Caution aside, he strode toward the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Empty.  
  
"Damn it, Randy, where are you?" He hated it, but he could hear the panic rising in his voice.  
  
"Right here." Sam spun around and was caught by a sofa pillow in the head. The force knocked him to the floor.  
  
"What the hell?"  
  
"That was a down payment. I'll get even later."  
  
The two men glared at each other for a moment. And then Sam started chuckling, shaking his head. Randy grinned down at him before offering a hand up. Sam grabbed hold and immediately pulled down, putting his foot in Randy's stomach and flipping him over. Randy went crashing onto the hall carpet a few feet from Sam. It took a moment for him to catch his breath. He rolled painfully over to his stomach, and glared at Sam, who shrugged innocently.  
  
"Some things you never forget."  
  
"God, why did I bring this man back into my life!" He shook his head, mimicking Sam, before looking back up, a wry smile on his face. "Truce?"  
  
"More than that." Sam pulled the tickets out of his pocket. "Treat."  
  
Randy reached over and grabbed the tickets excitedly. "Aw man, that's...that's fantastic! And the Guthrie!" He sobered, still looking at the tickets. "Sam, I'm sorry I pushed you so hard before. I just..."  
  
"Let's just forget it. We were both out of line. Chalk it up to growing pains. For now, we have a play to view. And you better damn well like it!"  
  
Randy watched as Sam pulled himself up and headed for the bathroom. A few moments later he heard the shower going.  
  
Sighing, he got to his feet. He was going to have to add to his collection on the A-Team, and soon. He needed to know as much about them as possible. He didn't need another Beller incident. Not now.


	18. Chapter 18

Tommy Fiallos walked into his office and glared angrily at the workmen and their scattered equipment. It looked like an electronics convention.  
  
"What the hell is going on here? I didn't authorize any work done!"  
  
"Really? Did you hear that, Mal? Mr. Fiallos says he didn't authorize any work." The first workman stood and looked at his companion, confusion on his face.  
  
"Well, I got a work order here, Fred. See, Mr. Fiallos - all signed, sealed and delivered."  
  
Tommy looked angrily for the paperwork, and instead found himself staring down at a Saturday Night Special. Some people thought they were just glorified pea-shooters, but those people had never had one pointed at them.  
  
"My guys will eat you for breakfast."  
  
"Your guys better stay the hell out of the way, if they want to keep you breathing, pal." The blond workman stepped closer, the barrel of the gun shoving into Tommy's stomach. "We aren't going to play any funny games today, Tommy. We're going right through the front door. You tell your people to play dead, understand? Then we go down the hall and down the stairs. You try anything - you even breathe wrong - and they'll be picking out flowers for your funeral."  
  
Tommy was starting to get very nervous. He had a lot of 'business associates', but he didn't think he'd pissed any of them off.  
  
"Who sent you?"  
  
Blondie winked at the other guy. "You might say General Stockwell sent us."  
  
Tommy turned pale. This was not the agreement he had with Stockwell. He was supposed to be safe, as long as he kept the information flowing. What the hell was going on?  
  
"I want to talk to Stockwell."  
  
"You will, pal. You will. Once you get us out of here in one piece."  
  
Tommy swallowed, and finally nodded. If these guys worked for Stockwell, he was in big trouble. No way he was going to make it worse.  
  
With a final nudge of the gun, he turned and walked out of the office, his two escorts close behind him.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock hung up the telephone. He did not want to tell Hannibal. No way in hell did he want to tell Hannibal. Maybe he could pretend the stress had finally gotten to him. Yeah, that might work. He could already hear Billy trotting toward him from the kitchen.  
  
"They've made contact?"  
  
Too late. Hannibal, standing beside him. Waiting.  
  
"Well, yeah, they've definitely made contact, Colonel." Murdock gulped. It wasn't just that they had made contact. It was the way they'd done it. And the fact that it was 'they'. There was just no way Murdock could deny that Face was an active participant any more.  
  
"Out with it, Captain."  
  
Murdock sighed. "That was Carla. Two men abducted Tommy Fiallos this morning when he arrived at his office. Tommy called Stockwell about an hour ago. In exchange for a full disclosure of his dealings with the General, he gets a guaranteed new identity."  
  
If Murdock had expected fireworks, he was in for a shock. Hannibal actually chuckled.  
  
"You all right, Hannibal? I mean, this is kind of a setback, isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, it's a setback, but Stockwell really hasn't done anything that the government hasn't been doing for years. Keeping a snitch on the payroll, so-to-speak. It'll hurt, but it won't be fatal. No, what I really wanted to find out was if I was right."  
  
Murdock closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked again at Hannibal, totally at sea.  
  
"Right? Right about what?"  
  
"Tell me, Murdock. What was our plan for Tommy?"  
  
"Turn him over to the Feds in exchange for immunity."  
  
"And what did that immunity entail?"  
  
Murdock suddenly saw a light at the end of the tunnel. "A new identity."  
  
"Exactly. Same plan, different method. Different only because they didn't have the Fed's on their side. It's going to work, Murdock."  
  
"Okay, you lost me again, Hannibal."  
  
"Trust me, Murdock. It's going to be a piece of cake."  
  
*****  
  
Sam was taking the newly 'minted' Tommy to Mexico City to begin his new life. Randy was staying in LA for a couple of days, taking care of some 'loose ends'; that was the explanation he gave his partner, who accepted it without question. What he was really doing was checking out the files of the LA Courier.  
  
Watching Sam work out Tommy's new identity had been a mixture of awe and trepidation. He didn't miss a single detail. It had taken a couple of days but the necessary documents and forms magically appeared. Randy had checked them over himself and admiringly told Sam he would never have recognized them as forgeries.  
  
"They aren't forgeries!" Sam had actually been upset at the suggestion. "These are perfectly legitimate. Every one of them. Forgeries..." he'd stalked off into the living room, still mumbling disgustedly.  
  
The ease with which Sam had accomplished his task bothered Randy. He'd even asked him how he knew what to do, who to contact. Sam, engrossed in his task, had just shrugged.  
  
"I don't know. Just takes a little finesse, that's all."  
  
"But how do you..."  
  
"Randy, c'mon. I can't get this done in time if you keep bugging me. I don't know how I know, I just do. Okay?" Sam was getting agitated, so Randy backed off. He knew Sam wouldn't have known how to do this. If he had, they could've easily disappeared when Barish was hunting them. Randy was very good as a con artist; Sam was excellent. But this guy...the man was a master.  
  
And it worried Randy. He knew it wasn't Sam doing this. None of it.  
  
When they had first discussed Tommy and how to handle him, Sam had made a few changes in Randy's plans, but had agreed with most of it. But a couple of days later, he'd suggested a completely new plan. It was definitely better than the original, but Sam had displayed an almost Puckish attitude while explaining it. It was that demeanor that alerted Randy, and so he had watched the plan unfold with more than his usual attention to detail. He'd watched the body language, listened to the telephone conversations. Sam had not even been aware of the changes, but Randy had noticed every one of them. The change in his tone of voice, the lighter step, the gleam in his eye as he gathered in yet another document, the way he was enjoying the challenge of coming up with a foolproof identity. And the gleeful triumph when they had finally abducted Tommy.  
  
Randy knew he'd just been introduced to Face.  
  
*****  
  
"Who's next on the list, Hannibal?" BA was, for once, not tinkering with anything. He had awakened that morning with an unusual feeling of loss. He didn't consider himself a introspective man, and definitely not morose. But after these past few months, first thinking Face was dead, then finding him only to discover he had no idea who they were, or who he was, trying and trying to get him to remember, only to have it all go to hell...he just wanted to get on with the job. He needed to be doing something other than rebuilding all the things he'd already rebuilt several times.  
  
Hannibal hesitated for a moment. He had been expecting a turn of events, but nothing quite this drastic.  
  
"There's been a change. A new name added, with a deadline day after tomorrow."  
  
"That doesn't give us much time, Hannibal." Murdock didn't like that. Despite Hannibal's return to his normal confidence, the pilot wasn't feeling nearly that cocky. He was still feeling the sting of Face's betrayal. Okay, maybe betrayal was too strong a word, but that's what it felt like.  
  
"Well, the target has already been sequestered, so it's going to be a lot more difficult for them to get to him. But this one has its own unique problems."  
  
"Okay, okay, Johnny. Out with it. Who's the next dude?" Frankie was still basking in the relief of not having to portray Tommy Fiallos, but feeling somewhat anxious about Hannibal's plans for him on this next one.  
  
"John Clifton."


	19. Chapter 19

He glanced one more time at the door, forcing himself not to get up and actually look at those on the other side. He knew who they were, of course. Six of Stockwell's men, supposedly his best. Supposedly going to keep him safe until he could be escorted back to the States and hidden until this 'threat' was eliminated. Right. He wasn't naive enough to believe it was his safety Stockwell was concerned about.  
  
He, himself, was not worried. He was more...insulted. Insulted that anyone could think they had even a chance of taking him. Ridiculous. He was a bit surprised that anyone knew who he actually was, however. Even the men in the next room didn't know who, exactly, they were guarding. He hadn't been known by his name since coming on board. He wasn't even known as an Able. He just...was. He used different names for different situations. Never the same one twice.  
  
If he disappeared tomorrow, no one would know who to look for.  
  
No, he knew it was what he could tell that worried Stockwell. As if he would say anything. That was also part of his reputation. He'd been in tight spots before and never sold out. He didn't have to, because his cover stories and backups were always planned out well in advance and to the smallest detail. He was the perfect employee for the people who needed his services. And over the past months, he had become the General's top 'problem solver'. He was good at what he did, always had been. He was discrete, he was invisible, and he was efficient. It was a source of great pride that he had yet to fail a mission during his career.  
  
With one exception.  
  
Dismissing that aggravation for the moment, he concentrated again on his current situation. Stockwell had contacted him personally this time. At first he had disdained the idea of body guards. He could certainly take care of himself. But the General was adamant; there was too much riding on this. And to a point, Stockwell would do whatever necessary to ensure he stayed healthy and safe. To a point. And that made this threat a possible problem for him in the future.  
  
No, he wasn't worried. He was irritated.  
  
*****  
  
"Hannibal, at what point in all of this is Stockwell going to know what really happened with Face?"  
  
"So far he's accepting the story that Face is tracking down leads. Stockwell always knew Face was good at detail. With Carla backing us up, Stockwell may never have to know. And if my plan works out..."  
  
"So what exactly is the plan, Hannibal?"  
  
"We'll be picking Clifton up at Stockwell's airfield early in the morning, about three. Stockwell wants it fast and simple. Clifton comes off the plane, into the van and we take off for the safe house."  
  
"And then what, Johnny?"  
  
"And then we wait for them to take the bait."  
  
"You really think they're going to know how to find us, and go directly against us, to get to him?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Doesn't make sense, Johnny."  
  
"Well, look at it this way, Frankie. Right from the start, they've had nothing but success. They've both been having fun with this, making Stockwell - and us - look like bumbling idiots. It's been a game. Too easy. That's why they changed the list. Upped the ante. They don't want it to be easy any more. They're looking for a challenge. And what bigger one than going after one of the people that not only can cause some serious legal problems for Stockwell, but also the one that tried to kill them both? The fact that they knew Stockwell would put us on him is icing on the cake. Because both Randy and Face have an axe to grind with us."  
  
"Hannibal..." Murdock jumped in at that point. "What do you mean, Face has an axe to grind? We only tried to help him..."  
  
"Yeah, but we messed up. Big time. Now Face has something to prove to us - that he got away from us before we could screw him up completely. That he's not only better off without us, but that he and Randy make a better team than we do."  
  
"It's that important to him to show us up? That doesn't sound like Face, even to me, Johnny."  
  
"That's because it's not really Face. It's Sam. And showing us up is only part of it. He's got something to prove to himself. That he really does function better as Sam than he did as Face. If he can prove that, he can let us go without any problem."  
  
"You think he can do that?"  
  
"No. Not after Fiallo. Tommy's disappeared completely. Along with most of the money in his bank accounts. No trace. From start to finish, there's only one person who could pull off that operation in just that way, and it's not Sam."  
  
"So how are they going to find us? We going to leave them a trail or something?"  
  
"No, we're going to do our damndest to make sure they don't find us. Anything less would be so obvious to them they'd switch to another target, with or without warning. And God only knows what kind of damage that could do. No, our boys want a challenge, and they're going to get it."  
  
*****  
  
"This is nuts, you know."  
  
The comment was met with a chuckle.  
  
"Of course it is. You don't want to be predictable, do you?"  
  
"God, no. A fate worse than death." The first man stretched out in the back seat. "So what time do you think they'll be heading out?"  
  
"Don't know for sure. But I figure late. Real late, when there's very little traffic. Easier to spot a tail that way, plus they can make better time wherever they're going."  
  
"So how hard do you think this will be?"  
  
"For us? Piece of cake."  
  
Randy smirked in the dark. This was more along his line. He was feeling that familiar tingle inside, and he knew Sam was feeling the same. Mind games were one thing; after Fiallos, they'd both gotten bored with the idea of more cloak and dagger crap. They were ready for some real action. And tonight was just the beginning.  
  
They watched from their vantage point as the lights in the house disappeared one by one. Only the security lights on the outside remained. They could see Stockwell's men making their rounds. Random pattern, of course. They waited another hour, until the occupants inside were asleep. Then they waited another thirty minutes, just to be sure.  
  
Finally, Randy sat up, draping his arms over the back of the front seat, looking expectantly at Sam. With a quick wink and a grin, Sam pushed open the door that he'd left partially open. He'd also disconnected the dome light. Randy slid out of the back seat just as quietly.  
  
Randy pointed to the left, and Sam gave him a thumbs up before heading in that direction. Randy immediately moved to the right.  
  
Show Time.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal woke suddenly. Something was wrong. Without turning on the light, he slid out of bed and quickly pulled the pistol from under the bed. He stepped quietly to his bedroom door, and slowly turned the handle. In moments he was gliding down the hall, listening at each of the bedroom doors. He even stopped at the door to Face's former bedroom, listening even though he called himself foolish for doing so. Hearing the expected silence, he moved on into the living room.  
  
He went from window to window, cautiously peering out through the curtains. He could see the Ables moving around the grounds. Stockwell had increased security at all of his 'facilities', including the compound, although Hannibal didn't understand the reasoning for it. Sometimes Stockwell wasn't as self-assured as he liked to pretend.  
  
Hannibal continued through the house, checking for anything that wasn't the way it should be. He found nothing. Sighing, he put it down to the coming events, chastising himself for letting things get to him. He really needed to get himself together or he'd be of no use to anyone over the coming days. He worked his way quietly back to his own bedroom and tried to relax. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was going on, something he had missed.  
  
*****  
  
Sam moved quietly through the trees toward the pool. Before stepping out into the open, he checked carefully for any Ables who might spot him. Once assured the coast was clear, he stepped boldly out of his cover and almost sauntered between the pool and the house. He was nearing the corner of the house when he caught a very slight movement at one of the windows. He deliberately ignored it, continuing his way toward the front of the house and his ultimate destination. Rounding the corner, he met up with his first Able.  
  
"Anything?" he was asked.  
  
"All quiet."  
  
"Yeah, over here, too. I don't understand what the General thinks is going to happen here. He won't even tell us what we're looking for. But nobody in their right mind would take on the A-Team on their home turf." The Able moved on, turning the corner.  
  
"You got that right, bud." Sam grinned at the Able's back. For once he was glad of the time spent here. Not only did he know the layout, but he knew the Ables. Randy had been a little skeptical when Sam had first proposed this venture, but had soon been persuaded when Sam added a few details. Tonight was not just a mission; it was entertainment, a frolic, and a Halloween prank all rolled into one. Sam didn't care if the team or Stockwell knew they'd been here. In fact, he was seriously considering sticking around to see their reactions when they found out. He nearly chuckled aloud, picturing it.  
  
Just now, however, he had work to do. He spotted his objective. At about the same time, he saw Randy strolling casually in the same direction. Good. Their timing was perfect.  
  
Randy stood at the front of the van, glancing carefully around for interference. Sam stood at the back of the vehicle, and, after making sure the coast was clear, dropped and scooted quickly underneath. This was the only really tricky part. He and Randy had poured over the detailed drawings of this make and model, and had finally decided on the perfect place. Now he just had to translate from the drawing to the real thing, and it wasn't as easy as it had seemed. Finally, however, he found it, and carefully placed the bug.  
  
He pulled himself out and grinned triumphantly at Randy, who mirrored his reaction. Now the fun could begin...


	20. Chapter 20

Sam added a few finishing touches to the van, smiling to himself when he thought about Baracus' reaction to them. He wondered, idly, which one of the team the guy would take it out on. He stopped for a moment, considering. Probably Murdock. BA seemed to prefer going after him.  
  
Sam would actually prefer it be Santana. He wasn't sure why he had a dislike for that kid, he was generally less offensive than the rest of them. Except for that cockiness. Somehow the guy seemed to think he had some sort of special relationship with Smith, just because they made a couple movies together. Like that counted for anything. Face had been with Smith for a hell of a lot...  
  
Shit. Face didn't even exist. Gotta remember that. Oh, that's funny, Sam. Real funny.  
  
"Ready?" Randy stepped up, looking closely at him. Sam knew his slips back into that funny farm world of the team had been noticed, and that it bothered Randy. Well, he was working on it. It was getting easier not to.  
  
"Yeah. You ready to do the Ables?"  
  
"Any time. Got the stuff?" Sam could just barely see Randy's face in the dark, but he could hear the eager grin in his voice.  
  
"Let's go, partner."  
  
The two men started their hunt. They'd counted six Ables outside. It was possible there were more in the house, but Sam doubted Smith would have put up with that. He went left again, Randy right. They had to be quick and quiet for this gag to work. Anyone putting up an alarm would ruin everything.  
  
Sam found his first almost immediately. Again listening to the status of security - ha ha - and then watching as the Able turned away to continued his rounds. A quick chop to the back of the neck and the first was taken out. He'd pulled his hit, so the guy would just have a tremendous headache when he woke up. He hoped Randy remembered to. Randy sometimes got carried away. But this was all for fun, not to get Stockwell on a complete rampage.  
  
He quickly dragged his victim out of sight and went looking for the next. He kept watching the windows for any tell-tale sign of the occupants being awake, but saw nothing.  
  
It took them less than a half-hour to incapacitate the Ables. Gleefully, the two men tied them up, and settled them against the van. Novelty glasses and springy antenna caps made up the final insult. Stepping back, Randy and Sam grinned crazily at each other.  
  
"Well done, ol' chap!"  
  
"Why, thank you, kind sir. Not bad yourself."  
  
"Now, shall we get out of here before any one else joins the party?" Randy headed for their car.  
  
"I'll meet you there in a minute. I've got one last thing to take care of." Sam looked toward the house, fun and games gone from his thoughts.  
  
"Sam? I think we've done enough now. Anything else can wait."  
  
Sam turned back to him, and Randy was surprised at the look on his face. "I said I'll be there in a minute, Randy."  
  
Raising his hands in surrender, Randy backed up. "Okay, buddy. Just don't do anything foolish. We've still got the big fish to fry yet." There was just a hint of warning in his voice.  
  
Sam relaxed, and winked at him. "Don't worry. I'm keeping the big picture in mind. Always."  
  
Randy wasn't so sure, but he turned and headed back to the car. He didn't know what his friend had in mind, but he hoped it was Sam doing it, and not Face. He didn't need any messes to clean up.  
  
*****  
  
"What's the ETA?" He was tired of the long flight. He didn't like small planes, regardless of how expensive or well-equipped. On a normal airliner he could just sleep away the Atlantic crossing. He hadn't been able to relax enough to do so on this thing.  
  
"About an hour, sir. We'll be going below radar shortly."  
  
Great. Nothing like flying just above an ocean in a small plane. He should have taken matters into his own hands when Stockwell first contacted him about this. He could have disappeared in Europe and enjoyed himself until this was all settled. Or gone after these people himself. But Stockwell, as always, had to do things the hard way. His way. It got very tiresome. Worse than working for those autocratic government jerks ever were.  
  
He checked his sidearm one more time. Stockwell's men hadn't been happy that he'd insisted on keeping it, but he refused to go anywhere unarmed. One of the men had mentioned that Colonel Smith would not allow it, but he wasn't worried. He'd dealt with military types before. Often. They usually backed down when faced with civilians who refused to take orders. This Smith had no control over him, not if he didn't let him.  
  
He looked out the small window, watching as the moon reflected on the ever closer water of the Atlantic. If he ever got off this plane in one piece, he and Stockwell would definitely be having a serious discussion.  
  
*****  
  
He stood in the hallway, listening. This was crazy, stupid, foolhardy. Necessary. There was something here in the house that he needed, but he didn't know what it was. Not yet. That was what made it so crazy. But he'd know it when he saw it. He moved down the hallway, slowly, quietly. No one would hear him. He knew that. He came to Face's bedroom door and turned the knob, carefully, and opened it only enough to slide through. He knew it squeaked if opened too far. Quickly he closed the door behind him, and turned on his flashlight, darting the beam quickly around the room.  
  
He saw it on the dresser. A small redwood box. Eyes fixed on it, he moved automatically toward it, opening it carefully, as if it would break at his touch. The object inside glittered in the light before he reverently picked it up and carefully stowed it in his pants pocket.  
  
His mission accomplished, he moved back toward the door, turning off the flashlight and listening carefully before opening it and again sliding through to the hallway. He was about to leave, when something made him turn and head further along in the darkness. He came to another door, and again carefully opened it. This one didn't squeak, so he was able to open it more fully.  
  
He stood in the doorway, breathing lightly, quietly, watching the man asleep in the bed. He stared hard at the face, desperately trying to pull a real and true memory into his mind. All he could do was bring up the memories they had forced on him. Nothing spontaneous, no warmth, no feeling of friendship, nothing. It just wasn't there.  
  
He stepped back, pulling the door back with him. He left it open, just a bit. He wanted to let Smith know he'd been close. Very close.  
  
Leave him with something to think about...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal's alarm went off at two in the morning, but he'd been awake for a while before. He'd had the strangest dream. About Face, of course. They were in a mausoleum, of all places. Face was accusing him of betraying him, trying to kill him. He looked straight at Hannibal, and said, "I don't need you any more, Colonel." He turned and walked away. Hannibal couldn't move. He just watched, silent, as Face disappeared in the fog. He awakened shortly after and didn't even try to go back to sleep.  
  
He heard the rest of the men starting to move around in their rooms, and pushed himself out of bed. He took a quick shower, taking the time to ground himself. He couldn't let something like a stupid dream bother him. They had a job to do and he would need his wits about him.  
  
It was as he came out of the bathroom that he noticed the door. He knew he'd closed it last night. He always closed it, tight. Frowning, he stepped into the hallway. Murdock and BA were already heading for the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, guys, either of you open my door last night or this morning?"  
  
They stopped and looked at him, mildly puzzled. Both shook their heads.  
  
"Problem, Hannibal?"  
  
"No, forget it." He'd check with Frankie but he knew he'd get a negative there, too. He looked around his room. Nothing out of place. And yet...  
  
He finished dressing quickly and headed for the kitchen himself. He met Frankie coming out of his room, and got the expected answer about the door. He stood for a minute, letting Frankie continue on without him. Pursing his lips, he turned back and headed for Face's room.  
  
It took him a moment to see it. The box on the dresser, sitting open, empty. Hannibal turned on his heel and hurried to get the others.  
  
"C'mon guys, we had company last night. BA, check the van. Murdock, you and Frankie check for the Ables. Now!"  
  
Ten minutes later, the Ables were untied and sheepishly standing alongside the van. BA was checking every inch of it for bugs. When he finally located it, he was not happy.  
  
"Hannibal, it's stuck up there by the brake line. They had to scrape away some oil and gunk; cut the brake line doin it. Gonna take some time to fix."  
  
"And we don't have time for that. Damn it!" He thought for a moment. He didn't like it. Sure, the bug had been hidden well, but still... He glanced at his watch. "Do a quick check of Frankie's Cutlass, BA. We'll have to take that. The 'vette isn't big enough."  
  
BA headed for the garage, shaking his head angrily.  
  
"All right, Murdock, you and Frankie get the gear out of the van, put as much as you can in the trunk. We don't have any time to waste."  
  
"What do you suppose they'll do now that they don't have the tracker, Hannibal?"  
  
"They'll find a way. Don't worry about that."  
  
*****  
  
"Want to tell me why you had to go in the house like that, Sam?" Randy spoke quietly, but there was an obvious tenseness in his voice.  
  
"Just something I left behind."  
  
Randy looked at him, curiously. "Must have been important."  
  
"It seemed like it..."  
  
Sam closed his eyes, feigning sleep, gently fingering the rosary in his pocket.


	21. Chapter 21

"Working?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Funny Baracus didn't find it."  
  
"I told you that casing would hide it. That, and a tank full of gas." He chuckled.  
  
Randy shook his head. What Sam didn't know about up to the minute technology wasn't worth knowing. He'd never seen anyone who could get so engrossed in electronic journals the way he could. Anything new, anything weird, Sam wanted to know about it. All about it.  
  
He glanced down at the little gadget Sam held. A bright red light was blinking steadily. It would waver now and then, going to one side or another depending on how the gas in the tank swept it around, but generally held steadily in a northerly direction. Sam hadn't bothered to turn it on when the Cutlass swung out of the compound. He'd waited, having a pretty good idea they were headed for the small, private airfield Stockwell used. Once the old car was out of sight, the two men had followed at a leisurely pace. Only when Sam was sure the team had arrived at the airfield had he switched on the remote tracker. After that, it was just a matter of following the little red dot.  
  
Randy kept his eye on the road, letting Sam direct him. They had the radio on, music they both liked. Other than that, it was silent in the car for some time. Finally Randy had to ask.  
  
"So, what was it you went back for, Sam?"  
  
Sam could feel his face getting hot. It was embarrassing, for some reason.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Oh, just a...a rosary. Don't ask me why I wanted it. It just seemed important to have it. Dumb."  
  
Randy didn't say anything for a few minutes, thinking. "I didn't know you were religious, Sam."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Then why...?"  
  
"I don't know, I said! I don't even know where the thing came from. I just...didn't want to leave it there."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Randy was thinking, hard. When they were finished with Clifton, they might just hold off a little on the next target. Not only would it make Stockwell sweat some - if he were still functioning at all - but he and Sam could use a little down time. A little vacation.  
  
Maybe go back out to LA.  
  
*****  
  
The pickup went smoothly, for the most part. Clifton objected strenuously to being searched, but while Hannibal distracted him, BA took care of that little problem. Their guest now slumped in the back seat, not quite comfortably between Murdock and Frankie. Hannibal was smoking a cigar, wondering how far they would get before Randy made his first move. The tracker on the van bothered him. It was clever, and had taken some time to find, but something wasn't quite right about it. At least the Cutlass was clean, but it left Hannibal wondering just what was coming next.  
  
He was looking at this wrong, again. Get back on track. What would he do in this case? How would he find his target, knowing the team would be in charge...he thought back to the van. He wouldn't want them to have access to that, not with the cache of weapons it could carry. He'd want them to be handicapped that way. So the tracker was supposed to be found, but not so easily that they would know it was a ruse. The real trick was the brake line.  
  
So far, the plan was working. They were without most of their weapons and communications systems. Only what the Cutlass carried, which was next to nothing. Sure, they could go back and get the van repaired and take it to the safe house, but it left them a man short when they were undermanned to begin with, plus opened more chances for the target to be found. So they were stuck with what they had.  
  
That left the Cutlass. There had to be a tracker on it, somewhere. He wouldn't sabotage the van, force them to use the car unless he could follow it without being seen. It made no sense otherwise. But BA had gone over every inch and hadn't found anything. Where would he put it that BA couldn't find it? Where the detector wouldn't 'see' it?  
  
He looked over at BA. If anyone knew about this stuff, it was BA. Time to start picking his brain. Before they got too close to the safe house.  
  
*****  
  
"They've stopped. Pull over."  
  
Randy immediately pulled off on the shoulder and waited.  
  
"Think they've figured it out?"  
  
"I think Smith knows there's something wrong. Probably talking it over with Baracus; he's the only one who might know how we did it." Sam pulled the map out of the glove compartment, made some quick marks on it. "There's a small town about fifteen miles from their current location. If they stop there for longer than it would take for a quick breakfast, we'll know they've figured it out." He closed his eyes, thinking. "Okay, we need to get there before they do. They'll switch cars. Smith won't want to take time to look for the bug. We'll pick up a second car, switch to close-up two man surveillance. But we have to hurry so we don't lose them completely." He looked at the map again. "Turn right up ahead. We can burn a little rubber and get there first."  
  
Randy nodded and pulled back onto the road. This was good. This was Sam. All Sam.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal and BA had taken several minutes to discuss the problem. At first, BA was adamant that he hadn't missed anything. But after Hannibal told him his reasoning, BA sat and thought hard. He had to agree, then, that there were ways of concealing a tracker, confusing the detector. But it was really high-tech stuff. Hard to get a hold of.  
  
"Except for someone who can be anyone at any time. Someone who could forge the proper paperwork, the authorizations, the requisitions."  
  
"Yeah, someone like that could get anything they wanted. And quick, too."  
  
Hannibal pulled out the map from the glove compartment. "Okay, about twelve miles from here there's a town that ought to be big enough to have rental cars. We'll ditch the Cutlass. Murdock, you find a restaurant and get a takeout breakfast. Frankie, you keep an eye on sleeping beauty. I want us back on the road before they catch on to us." Folding the map back up, he lit yet another cigar. "Let's go, BA."  
  
*****  
  
Randy had stuck on a moustache and cap before going into the rental place. Enough to draw attention from his real features, not enough to look odd or be remembered. It took only a few minutes to fill out the paperwork with his fake ID and take possession of the mom-and-pop sedan. He met Sam on the edge of town.  
  
"All set?"  
  
Randy nodded.  
  
"They haven't pulled in yet." Sam glanced at his watch. "Should be any time now."  
  
"Okay. See you on the flip side." Randy smiled and slid back into the rental. He would wait at the other end of the one main street. If they took any other route out of town, Sam would alert him in plenty of time.  
  
Sam watched as Randy pulled away and drove out of sight. He could feel the adrenaline starting to pump faster now. This wouldn't be as easy as following the tracker. But it would be a hell of a lot more fun.  
  
*****  
  
The team were all on guard as they pulled into the town. They saw the restaurant first, and dropped Murdock off. They spotted the rental agency a few blocks from there. Hannibal took care of the paperwork, using the ID's Stockwell had provided them with. He also asked about a place to store the Cutlass; Frankie was already complaining about leaving it here.  
  
When he returned, their guest had fully awakened, and was not happy.  
  
"I want my sidearm back, now."  
  
"You'll get it back when I decide you'll need it. And right now, you don't need it. We're all the protection you have to have."  
  
"Why doesn't that make me feel better? Listen, Smith, I know you've been trying to catch up with these guys for some time now. And I know they've been making fools of you and your team. So don't tell me how protected I should feel."  
  
Hannibal looked at him, wanting to put him back in slumber land but not wanting to make a scene out here on the street. "Just what do you know about these guys?"  
  
"Only that they're determined to bring Stockwell down. And they want me to be the next tree crashing in his forest. That, and what I already mentioned is all Stockwell would tell me."  
  
"Okay, then you don't know enough to make any decisions. You will keep your mouth shut, and do what I tell you, or you will be tied and gagged like any other sleazeball we've dealt with." Hannibal stepped up in the man's face. "I don't like what you do, I don't like you, and I don't like being the one supposed to keep you from these guys. For two cents, I'd turn you over to them with my blessing. So you give me any trouble and I'll let Stockwell go down another notch. Got it?"  
  
"Anything you say, Smith." Clifton glared at him, but knew it wasn't his time yet. Later. He'd have plenty of time later to deal with Smith and company.  
  
Silently, the men drove the Cutlass to the storage garage, and then took the rental to pick up Murdock. Forty minutes after entering the town, they were once again on their way to the safe house.  
  
They paid no attention as one car after another pulled into the beginning of the rush hour traffic around them.


	22. Chapter 22

"Hannibal?"  
  
"Yes, Murdock?"  
  
"You want to tell us what's going on?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Murdock leaned over the back of the front seat, his cap pushed forward. "Well, for starters, where are we going? We should have been at the safe house a long time ago."  
  
"We aren't going to the safe house. We're going to do a little traveling."  
  
"Uh, why?"  
  
"Because I want to frazzle a few nerves back there."  
  
"Back there, meaning Randy and Face? You think that's wise?"  
  
"I think it's the only way they're going to make a mistake."  
  
"Okay...uh, can I ask another question?"  
  
"Of course, Murdock." Despite his words, there was a long-suffering tone to Hannibal's voice.  
  
"How did you know Face and Randy had been at the house?"  
  
"That was simple. They - or, maybe, just 'he' - left my bedroom door open. Enough so I would notice it."  
  
"Face was in your room?" BA nearly drove off the road, staring at Hannibal. "What the..."  
  
"He didn't do anything. Just left the door open so I would know he'd been there. That, and he took his rosary from the dresser."  
  
"Rosary?" Frankie looked confused. "I mean, I know Face was Catholic, but I didn't think he was, well, religious-like."  
  
"I don't know if religion had anything to do with it, Frankie. I think it was just something Face wanted to have."  
  
"Face? Or Sam? I thought he was through being Face, Johnny. I mean, that's the idea I got from him."  
  
Hannibal smiled softly. "I think Face is going to have something to say about who's who, Frankie."  
  
*****  
  
Clifton had been dozing; at least, letting them think he was dozing. But he was listening closely to the conversation. At first it didn't mean much to him, until he heard the name 'Randy', and then 'Sam'. And that made him smile to himself. Well, well...the two that got away, huh? And now they were trying to take down Stockwell. Ironic kind of justice, there. When it was Stockwell that wanted them alive to begin with. Well, no one got everything their way...  
  
*****  
  
Sam was getting tired. The adrenaline flood of earlier, when the chase was new and the territory open, had drawn down to nothing as they had moved onto the highways crowded with enough cars to easily keep them out of sight. He and Randy kept trading places, but the last few times they'd glanced at each other in passing, and the boredom was clear to both. For a while, just to pass the time, Sam had started a discreet game of tag with Randy, coming up next to him, making a face, and then passing. Shortly after, Randy would take his turn. They continued until they started getting dirty looks from other motorists. Their day wound down to dullness.  
  
Sam had realized what Smith was doing some time ago. They'd been driving much too long to be going to any safe house. Stockwell would never allow them to get this far from Langley if they were going to be staying anywhere for the duration. No, Smith intended to wear them down. Wait for them to get impatient, get frustrated, make mistakes. Like a moving siege. He was sure Randy knew it, too. Well, there were a few things the two of them could teach the Colonel about being on the road.  
  
They would wait until the team stopped for lunch, and dump the rental car. No point in both of them getting exhausted, and there was little chance of anything weird happening on these highways. Smith knew they were being followed anyway.  
  
In fact, as long as Smith knew...  
  
This might not work out the way the Colonel expected, after all.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had BA pull over at the truck stop in Wheeling Creek, Ohio. Clifton had been awake for the last two hours, and complaining ever since. He was cramped, he was hot, he was cold...Hannibal was about ready to stuff him in the trunk. Clifton had just made a remark about who was getting frazzled when Hannibal saw the truck stop. It probably saved their passenger a very uncomfortable ride.  
  
Hannibal had the others go in to eat. He stayed with the car, smoking his cigar in the first peace he'd had since the airfield. He was keeping an eagle eye out for any cars that looked familiar, but he knew it was an impossible task. He was looking more at the drivers getting out of the cars. Again, nearly impossible, since the truck stop had multiple entrances and what seemed like hundreds of trucks moving in and out.  
  
After a while he gave up, knowing that BA and Murdock would be watching the door anyway. He needed to think over this brilliant plan of his. Sure, it was going to wear down Randy and Face. Especially Face, who hated driving anything except his 'vette, and hated even more driving at the sedate speed Hannibal was making BA maintain. He had a feeling Randy felt much the same way.  
  
Unfortunately, although Hannibal and the rest of the team could manage to amuse themselves during trips like this, no one had counted on Clifton or his attitude. Obviously the rental car was way beneath him, as were his traveling companions. The man was insufferable. He kept claiming he was perfectly capable of protecting himself, and Hannibal had no doubt of that. He knew who had capped Barish. Along with an innocent lab assistant. And that was precisely why Stockwell had the team babysitting the guy. It was as much to keep an eye on Clifton as it was to keep him safe.  
  
Glancing around the truck stop one more time, Hannibal decided their trip was coming to an end, at least for that day. They could be in Indianapolis in just under four hours, and he intended to find a very classy hotel to spend the night in. And if Clifton was lucky, the closets would be large enough for him to lay down in.  
  
*****  
  
Randy left the rental car at the fast food joint where they ate, hurrying to make sure they didn't miss the team leaving the truck stop. Things were better now. As they drove along, they talked about what they'd like to do when this was finished, the places they wanted to visit, the things they'd like to try.  
  
They had settled into a comfortable silence, radio playing, when they first started seeing the signs for Indianapolis. They decided to move up on the team's rental. Sam knew BA could drive circles around even the best drivers, and he wasn't about to lose them now. He needn't have worried. Apparently the team was more anxious to get to a good hotel than worrying about the two men following them. That, plus Randy seeming to have x-ray vision to see through the traffic, made it seem easy. Sam allowed himself to relax and start planning.  
  
By the time the team arrived at the Canterbury Hotel, Sam was smiling. He had a plan so great and yet so simple...and there was just no way the team could ignore it. Randy glanced over and saw the smile and knew there was something going on. He was just tired enough to wonder if he really wanted to get in on yet another of Sam's wild schemes. The next second he knew he would go along. He always did. That was just another of Sam's skills. Getting people to do what they didn't want to, and enjoy it.  
  
"So?" Randy waited, knowing he would regret this.  
  
"So, let's give them a chance to get settled in and then we'll get ourselves a room. I must say, Smith's choice surprised me. I didn't think he had that much taste. Of course, it could be Mr. Clifton exerting his influence."  
  
"You want a room at the same hotel?"  
  
"Sure. Maybe we can even get on the same floor." He looked innocently at Randy. "Easier to keep an eye on things."  
  
"Right..."  
  
Randy sighed, and settled in for the wait. Ninety minutes later Sam had charmed his way into a suite, one of four on the same floor as the team. Stockwell would be paying for Smith's suite; Sam and Randy were staying gratis, as only befitted AAA inspectors. They had barely closed the door on the smiling bellhop when Sam sat on the bed and reached for the phone.  
  
"Now what are you up to?" Randy was so tired, he wondered how Sam could still have any energy left.  
  
"Just calling on an old friend. At least, that's what I was told, so why not?" Sam grinned, but it was definitely not a nice grin. He held up his hand as the person on the other end of the line picked up.  
  
"Yes, I'd like a number in Chicago, Illinois, please...Baracus..."


	23. Chapter 23

"Baracus?" Randy looked confused.  
  
"BA's mother. She lives in Chicago, and he's totally devoted to her. She ought to make a very nice diversion for them."  
  
Randy cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. "Diversion?"  
  
"Sure. What do you think Mama's boy will do when we tell him we have his mother, and are willing to trade her for Clifton?"  
  
"But we don't have his mother to trade."  
  
"Not yet..."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had just stepped out of the shower the next morning when there was a knock at the door. Opening it, he found a room service clerk with a huge cart.  
  
"We didn't order anything. I'm sorry..."  
  
"No, sir, this is compliments of another guest of the hotel. He asked that we give you this as well." The clerk held out a plain white envelope. With huge misgivings, Hannibal took it and allowed the cart to be wheeled in.  
  
"Just call us when you're finished, sir."  
  
Hannibal closed the door thoughtfully. He knew who had sent it, of course. He shouldn't have been surprised that they were in the same hotel. It was exactly the kind of thing Hannibal himself would have done, and he couldn't help but smile at that. Murdock, BA and Frankie all emerged from their rooms at that moment, the smell from the cart awakening their appetites. Clifton, according to Frankie, was still enjoying the effects of BA's knockout drops.  
  
"Hey, this is great, Hannibal!" Murdock was already perusing the provisions. "There's just about everything you could ask for here."  
  
"Yeah, Hannibal, thanks, man." BA was already filling his plate, with Frankie right behind him.  
  
"Uh, guys, I didn't order this."  
  
There was immediate silence. BA set his plate down after one glance at Hannibal's face. "Face?"  
  
"I'm guessing, yeah. This came with it." He dangled the envelope in front of him before carefully tearing it open.  
  
There was a short note inside.  
  
"Colonel Smith, we realize you had intended an early start on yet another day of random driving. However, it would be in your best interest to stay put for at least one more day. Enjoy your breakfast."  
  
"Any idea where they are?" Hannibal grinned, starting to enjoy this little game.  
  
"Obviously close by, right, Hannibal?"  
  
"Oh, very close by. They're here in the hotel."  
  
"Damn, Johnny. Now what do we do?"  
  
"Well, I, for one, intend to enjoy this breakfast so nicely provided for us. After, of course, you taste test everything, Frankie..."  
  
*****  
  
"Mrs. B.? This is Templeton Peck...yes, Face...look, I know this is out of the blue, but we've got some down time right now and I want to surprise BA with a little something...I'd like to get the two of you together for a couple of days...no, no, don't thank me, Mrs. B., believe me, it's my pleasure...no, I'm afraid I can't get him to Chicago. The logistics aren't quite right for that...I was thinking if you could come to New York...no, I've already got your ticket. You would have to leave today, though...a friend of mine and I will pick you up in a couple hours...now, one other thing. It might take a few days to get him there. I've got to convince him to go without letting him know why, or it wouldn't be a surprise...good, I'm glad that won't be a problem for you. Okay, then, we'll see you soon..."  
  
Sam hung up the phone, and stepped from the booth at the truck stop. They were half way between Indianapolis and Chicago. Sam had wanted to give the woman some notice, but not enough to get suspicious. She would still be too excited to wonder why Face was doing this, or why BA hadn't come with him now. Sam really didn't know how much Mrs. Baracus knew about the team's current situation so he was going to have to tread carefully; a few leading questions would have to be asked of her if he was going to make this halfway believable. He wanted her cooperation on this, but if he couldn't get it, well...the plan was going through, regardless. He and Randy had already agreed to that.  
  
He hopped into the car, turning the key in the ignition.  
  
"Well?" Randy looked at him, a mix of excitement and concern on his face.  
  
"She bought it, so far. I told her we'd pick her up in a couple of hours. Let's just hope Baracus hasn't been in touch with her since I left. Or that he hasn't told her anything about you."  
  
"Well, we already agreed on the alternatives. Or aren't you okay with that? It's up to you."  
  
"No, this is the only way we can get Clifton without a lot of...complications. I don't want any complications."  
  
"Then there won't be." Sam looked over at him, just a hint of skepticism showing. "Hey, I told you, Sam. You don't want bodies strewn around, there won't be. I'm not some kind of monster, y'know."  
  
Ashamed, Sam quickly reassured him. "I know that, Randy. I do. I just...well, hell, we're in the same boat, right? There are parts of me that you don't know any more, and I know it bothers you. I can tell you over and over that Face is dead and buried, but you still wonder. It's the same for me. What part of you is there that I don't really know? And how much power does that hidden part have?  
  
"I want us to trust each other like we used to, Randy. But I'm realistic enough to know neither of can quite do that. Not yet. But I trust you enough to know that your word is good, and that I can put my life in your hands without question. The rest will come. I know that."  
  
Randy smiled. Finally they would be able to acknowledge the gap that had developed between them and not have it destroy what they still had. And it made him think that maybe Sam would, eventually, be willing to acknowledge his past, his real past, and accept it. Once he could accept it, then he could move on. Then they could move on.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton, when he awoke, was not happy, and it was obviously not a big surprise to Colonel Smith. Nor did he seem to care. So Clifton fumed for a few minutes and then, with ill grace, sat down to eat the breakfast that was left on the cart. It was then that Smith told him about the change in plans.  
  
"So the men who are after me are now calling the shots? Great. And I thought Stockwell had gotten someone with at least some brains."  
  
BA stood up angrily, ready to send Clifton back to slumber land, but Hannibal stopped him.  
  
"Look, guy, the only one calling the shots here is me. I decided that it was better to wait and see what these guys want, instead of taking off and perhaps blowing a chance to take them down. We aren't exactly babes in the woods when it comes to outwitting setups. We did it for over ten years, very successfully. So if I were you, I'd keep my trap shut or I'll let BA deal with you."  
  
Clifton looked steadily at Hannibal, letting him know he wasn't intimidated by BA glare or size. He'd taken down bigger men.  
  
"I'll be quiet, Smith. But understand one thing. I look out for me. You guys get in a bind because of this, it's your problem. I will do what I have to, to make sure I come out breathing."  
  
"Fair enough, Clifton. As long as you don't cause problems for me or my team. Any of them. You do that, and I will take you out myself."  
  
The two men glared at each other, each knowing the other meant every word they said.  
  
*****  
  
It took some time to find the address, but eventually they pulled up in front of the apartment building. A large black woman was standing out in front, suitcase beside her. She smiled happily when Sam got out of the car.  
  
"Face! Oh, it's so good to see you again!" She enveloped him in a big hug. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you're doing. Especially..." she stopped suddenly, embarrassed.  
  
"It's okay, Mrs. B." He suddenly felt uneasy. He knew he'd never met the woman, not really, but there was something tugging at him just the same.  
  
"Well, BA told me about your...memory problem. I'm so sorry, Face."  
  
"Don't worry about it. Uh, when did you talk to Bara - uh, BA, last?"  
  
"Oh, it's been a couple of months now. He doesn't like to call me from that house, with all the bugs and such; in fact, he worries about being listened to most of the time, and watched. I suppose that's why you weren't able to bring him along this time..."  
  
"Exactly, Mrs. B. It was hard enough for me to slip out. That's why it might take a few days before I can get BA out of there. That is, without actually telling him what's going on." The lies seemed to flow effortlessly from Sam's mouth. Thank God the woman liked to talk. He began to relax again.  
  
"Oh, I understand. Besides, it hasn't been that long since the military quit watching this place."  
  
Sam stood for a moment, stunned. He'd completely forgotten about the military. Shit. He could've walked right into a trap and not even thought about it.  
  
"Are you okay, Face? You look a little pale, hon." He felt her warm hand on his arm and brought himself back.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Mrs. B. Listen, we need to get going if we're going to catch your plane. Oh, and this is...Ray. An old friend of mine."  
  
"Ray, how are you? Isn't that funny? BA and Face had a buddy in the Army named Ray. Poor man passed away a few years ago."  
  
That shook up Sam even more. No one had said anything about a Ray. But then they hadn't said a lot about Nam or the Army. They'd been too busy talking about the near past...  
  
"Face?" This time it was Randy who was concerned. Suddenly Sam seemed to be tongue-tied, his mind out in space somewhere. "You okay?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine." Spoken a little too forcefully. He had to take control of himself. Forget that rubbish. "Well, shall we go? I've booked a room for you at the Radisson, I think you'll like it..."  
  
The rest of the trip to the airport was uneventful. Mrs. Baracus was full of questions about BA and how he had been doing the last couple of months, and so happy she would get to see him again. Sam almost felt guilty; but then again, once they had Clifton, there was no reason not to let BA know where she was so he could go see her. She seemed like a nice lady.  
  
He was glad and relieved she hadn't caused any problems...well, not any he couldn't deal with.


	24. Chapter 24

"Well, this is cozy." Randy and Sam wandered around the small apartment, checking out their new, albeit temporary, habitat. Mrs. Baracus kept a tidy house, with pictures of her family, especially BA, scattered throughout. "Flip you for the bed."  
  
"Sure, as long as you're flipping a quarter." Sam looked in the fridge. Mrs. B. had emptied it out, for the most part. A woman who took care of practicalities. "Well, we'll have to stock up sometime today. Anyway, shall we call our friends?"  
  
"No, I don't think so."  
  
Sam looked up in surprise. "Why not?"  
  
"I think we should let them stew a little bit. Plus, I want to wait until we can confirm that the mother is actually in New York, at the hotel. Last thing we want is to have her come bursting in on us unexpectedly."  
  
"Hmm. Good point. Points. All right, let's go find a grocery store and get some grub in here. I'll even split for lunch."  
  
The two friends slipped out of the apartment, not wanting to attract any attention. They didn't want Mrs. Baracus' neighbors questioning two men living in her apartment.  
  
Out on the sidewalk, Sam looked around. He'd never been to Chicago. Maybe they'd do a little sight-seeing before going to the store.  
  
The team could wait a little longer.  
  
*****  
  
Not wanting to chance Clifton slipping away, Hannibal decided they would not leave the hotel room until they departed the city. Plus, he didn't want any of the team out of reach when Face eventually contacted them again.  
  
He had an uneasy feeling about this delaying tactic. On one hand, he was enjoying the challenge. He hadn't realized, after all this time, how resourceful his lieutenant could be. Or maybe he'd just taken it for granted. Gotten so used to issuing demands and having them met, that the intelligence and planning needed to meet them was forgotten or ignored. Another thing he needed to change, once they got Face back.  
  
That said, the enjoyment was tempered by the fact he had no clue what was coming next. Obviously, something was in the works to get at Clifton, something that couldn't be done without effort and time. He acknowledged, as the afternoon wore on with no word from Face, that there were some mind games going on at the same time.   
  
The hotel room, while spacious, just didn't hold five anxious men very well. Tension was rising, especially between Clifton and BA. A few mind games there, as well. Hannibal was reminded that Clifton was an expert at what he did, and understood all the ways of getting at people, finding their weaknesses and exploiting them. And he obviously understood that BA was angry on several fronts - about Face, about what Clifton did, about being cooped up in the hotel, waiting. It was a situation that the man reveled in. And he knew exactly how far to go without pushing BA over the edge. And having BA constantly on edge was getting to everyone else.  
  
Hannibal stared at the phone, watched the door. Damn it. Why didn't Face contact them?  
  
*****  
  
After spending most of the day checking out the more famous attractions in Chicago, Randy and Sam had a leisurely dinner out, then stopped at a grocery store a few blocks from the apartment before heading home. Sam was relaxed and happy, and thought today was a good example of what his life would be like once this was all over.  
  
Randy had also enjoyed their day, one of those rare days when they could take time to get re-acquainted without having to worry about that next step. Although they still had their phone call to make, there was no sense of urgency. It was something they needed to do, sometime that day.  
  
In the meantime, Randy was feeling himself relax more and more. He hadn't felt like this for a long time. Several times during the day, he'd actually found himself thinking that he could walk away from Stockwell right then and there, and feel not an ounce of regret. The whole project had taken on a life of its own. At first, it was cold anger that had started things in motion. The need to make everyone involved in destroying his life pay. Then a sense of wild west justice had moved in. Wanting to do whatever he could to make sure they couldn't do this to someone else. And then Sam had come back, and everything changed again.  
  
Now it was a game. A challenge. He knew Sam was every bit as serious about a successful conclusion as he was, and yet, Sam brought a sense of fun to it. Not just having fun making fools of Stockwell and the team, but actually enjoying pushing the envelope, seeing how far they could go, how outrageous they could be without getting caught. It was...exhilarating.  
  
And yet it was tiring, too. Sam seemed to be on some kind of adrenalin high that he couldn't - or wouldn't - get down from. No sooner had one scheme been completed, than he was thinking up something else. Randy preferred to stop and think things over. Enjoy things as he moved along the path. Sam seemed almost driven. As if he was afraid to slow down, afraid to relax. Afraid that if he didn't keep things constantly up in the air, realities would come crashing down on him.  
  
The more Randy thought about it, the more he became convinced that that was what was happening. Sam didn't want to let down, because that would mean having time and energy to think about the things he didn't want to think about. Like Face. And yet Randy knew the guy was popping up, more and more. He could see it in Sam's face. Something would come into his mind, and he'd get pale, or stare off into space for a moment, or frown at nothing. Like earlier today, with Mrs. Baracus. Randy knew things had been said that had thrown Sam off, badly. And, even though they had thoroughly enjoyed the rest of their day, Randy had seen those tell-tale signs more today than ever before.  
  
He sighed, watching as Sam put away the groceries and noted that he was starting to glance at the clock. Their day of relaxing was coming to a close. Sam was getting anxious to get back into the game. Anxious to throw another volley at the team. Anxious to get that adrenalin flowing again...  
  
*****  
  
The phone call came just after seven that evening. Hannibal took it, the others, sans Clifton, sitting around him, listening. Clifton had, thankfully, gone to his room to read. They all kept an eye on his door, not wanting him in on anything more than he had to be.  
  
"Smith?"  
  
For a moment, Hannibal didn't say a word. He was surprised, shocked almost, at his feelings on hearing Face's voice after so long. He quickly gathered his scattered mind together.  
  
"You know it is, Face. What do you want?"  
  
Hannibal caught the irritation Face felt at being called by that name. "We want Clifton, of course. And we have something to trade. Even up. Our guest for yours."  
  
The Colonel felt his hackles raise. They had taken a hostage. God, no. Who...  
  
"And what makes you think we'd agree to this exchange?" He kept his voice smooth, calm, unconcerned.  
  
"Well, you might not, but I'm quite sure Baracus will be of another mind. We're here in Chicago, by the way. Beautiful city."  
  
Oh, no. No. Not Mrs. B.  
  
"Face, how could you..."  
  
"Face is dead, Colonel. If he ever lived. You're starting to irritate me, y'know. Now is not a good time to do that." Sam's voice was cold, hard, unfeeling. "Now, if you want to discuss this with the rest of your team before we go any further, feel free. I'll call back in fifteen minutes." The line disconnected.  
  
Hannibal sat staring at the phone, horrified at the turn of events. Never in a million years would he have thought of this possibility. Never. He looked over at BA, knowing the man was going to go ballistic.  
  
"Well, Colonel? What'd he say?" Murdock was anxious. He wanted this confrontation, wanted the chance to get to Face. The sooner, the better.  
  
"BA, I...I think you should call your mother's. Now. Make sure she's okay."  
  
It took a split second for them to understand the implications. They'd heard Hannibal talk about an exchange. Now they knew who.  
  
Barely containing himself, BA grabbed the phone and dialed. After what seemed like hours, someone picked up. BA didn't recognize the voice.  
  
"I wanna talk to Mrs. Baracus. Now."  
  
"I'm sorry, BA, she's indisposed at the moment. Did you and Smith have a chance to talk things over yet, or do you need a little more time?" BA slammed down the phone and came close to throwing it against the wall. Only Hannibal's anticipation of his reaction kept him from it.  
  
"He answered. Not Face. That other guy." He glared death rays at the men in the room. "I'm goin to Chicago. Now."  
  
"Wait a minute, BA. You can't just go barging in up there. It could get your mother hurt." Hannibal laid a firm hand on BA's arm, taking his life in his hands doing so. For a moment, he thought BA was going to slug him. Then the big man slumped and dropped to the couch. He stared at the floor, silent.  
  
"Okay, Face will be calling back in a few minutes. We've gone this route before; it's just another hostage exchange. We've done it before and won. We can do it again."  
  
"We weren't up against one of our own before, Hannibal." Murdock was pale, angry. He just knew this was Randy's doing. Face would never put BA's mother in harm's way. Never.  
  
"Face ain't one of us. Not no more." BA looked up long enough to send daggers into Murdock, who wisely said nothing, although he was seething inside.  
  
"All right, enough. We don't know whose idea this was. And Face is still one of us, BA. You know the situation and you know if he were himself he never would have gone near your mom. What we have to remember is they have no gain in harming her. None whatsoever. In fact, the better care they take of her, the better for their bargaining position. Face knows that." He looked sternly at BA.  
  
Angry as he was at the turn of events, Hannibal had to keep the big picture in mind. Face may be acting totally out of character right now, but he was under Randy's influence. No way the Colonel was going to let this destroy their chances of reuniting. It would be much harder, but he would not let it go.  
  
"When Face calls back, we will do whatever he says. And once we know their plans, we'll start making our own. We will make this work. Period."


	25. Chapter 25

Randy watched as Sam made the phone call. He'd heard the anger spring up, and knew Smith had said something about Face. After he'd hung up, Sam had silently gone into the kitchen and pulled out a beer. He stood there, drinking in long gulps, when the phone began to ring. Without moving, he told Randy to answer it.  
  
"It'll be Baracus. You know what to do."  
  
That conversation had been short and effective. Chuckling at the results, he'd turned back to Sam, surprised to see that he had opened a second bottle, still stood silently in the kitchen.  
  
"Sam? You okay? It's working like a charm."  
  
"Yeah. Great." He looked at the clock. Ten more minutes. He pulled at the beer again and felt the coarse coldness going down his throat. He was starting to feel a slight tingle now, too.  
  
"Sam...what's going on?"  
  
"Nothing...Smith...I shouldn't let him get to me. Him and Stockwell's damn head games...their lies..."  
  
"Are you so sure it's all lies, Sam? What about Baracus' mother?"  
  
Sam looked sharply at Randy. "What are you saying, Randy?" His voice was low, calm.  
  
"I'm saying she knew who you were right away, Sam. She didn't wait for you to come to her. She knew which of us was Face."  
  
"Damn it, Randy, there is no Face! There never was."  
  
Randy stepped over to the small coffee table, pulling a photo album from the shelf underneath. "What are these, then, Sam?" He opened the pages, shoved the album at Sam.  
  
Without thinking, Sam grabbed the book and looked at the pictures. Pictures from Nam. Pictures of the team. All of them.  
  
Sam dropped the album to the floor and moved slowly to the small kitchen table. He sat, staring at the wall. He drank long and deep from the bottle of beer.  
  
When the fifteen minutes was up, Randy made the call.  
  
*****  
  
BA was silent on the drive to Chicago. Hannibal had tried reassuring him, but BA just glared at him. Like it was Hannibal's fault. Frankie kept watching out the window, glancing cautiously at the front seat occasionally. Murdock was keeping up a quietly whispered conversation with his hat. Hannibal would look back at him now and then, not sure if he was just trying to amuse himself or if there were bigger problems.  
  
Chicago was only a few hours from Indianapolis, and the team had started out first thing in the morning. They would have left that night, after the second call, but had been told to be ready to leave when they were called in the morning with instructions. It was obvious from BA's call to his mother's apartment that that's where the two men were staying, and Hannibal had been sorely tempted to crash their little party. Randy had put a kibosh to that idea by stating that they would be calling the hotel at intervals during the night and they had all better be there to answer. The two conspirators had apparently thought of every contingency. When the night passed without any checkup calls, Hannibal could have kicked himself. None of them had gotten a decent night's sleep, waiting for those calls, thinking about Mrs. B.  
  
When the call had come that morning, early, Hannibal was not in any mood for games. He didn't know whether to be relieved or angry when it was Randy on the other end. Apparently Randy was not in the mood for long conversations, either. He tersely gave them the address of a gas station in Chicago. They were to be there at ten, by the corner phone booth. Further instructions would come then. With that, Randy had hung up.  
  
The timing was close. They had no time for breakfast, just barely time to check out and hit the freeway. BA had said he knew approximately where the station was and how to get there. The only thing they had to worry about was getting caught in traffic. And the way BA was driving, Hannibal concluded it was probably the other cars that had to worry about them.  
  
*****  
  
Randy made the call in the morning. Hanging up, he sighed, and moved to the bedroom. Sam was stretched out on the bed, still sleeping. He hadn't said another word last night, just sat at the kitchen table, reaching into the refrigerator for the next beer, downing it, reaching for another. Randy tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't respond at all, so he just let him drink. After a while, Sam's eyes started glazing over, it was harder for him to hold on to the bottle. Finally, his put his arms on the table and lay his head down. Randy had half-dragged, half-carried him to the bedroom and got him on the bed, closing the door behind him. He then stretched out on the couch, television on low, and forced himself to sleep.  
  
Today would be a hard day for both of them. He knew, and accepted without resentment, that he would be dealing with the team. He didn't want Sam going anywhere near Smith, not at this point. Too many things could go wrong. He had a pretty good idea of the kind of man Smith was, and he had developed a respect for the way the man's mind worked. So far, he and Sam had been able to stay ahead of the game, but just barely. While it was true that Sam and Randy had made the first move, after that it had become simply a matter of reacting to the other side's reacting to the previous move. There was no real plan. See what they did, do something to mitigate damages, watch them do the same. It sure as hell was no way to win a ballgame.  
  
All the more reason to keep Sam out of the picture today. With all that he had encountered yesterday, he would be too vulnerable to Smith's mind games. Smith would make mince meat out of him. And there was no way Randy was going to let that happen.  
  
*****  
  
The team arrived at the gas station with less than ten minutes to spare. Hannibal stood next to the booth, BA standing guard. Murdock and Frankie stayed in the rental, watching for any ambush. Clifton seemed calm, but Murdock noticed he was watching the surroundings with every bit of attention as the rest. He didn't like the idea that they would have to watch Clifton as closely as they would Randy and Face, and knew he wasn't alone in that. None of them wanted to be dealing with two fronts, particularly when they just didn't know what the hell Face was going to do next.  
  
The phone rang at exactly ten. Hannibal snatched up the receiver.  
  
"Smith."  
  
"Good morning, Colonel. Glad you could make it."  
  
"Cut the chitchat. We're ready to deal."  
  
Randy sighed theatrically. "Colonel Smith, really. Where's your sense of adventure? Your love of a challenge? All those things that made you such a legend in country?"  
  
"That was then, this is now. And right now, you're holding an innocent woman who happens to be very close to this team. And we don't like that."  
  
"Well, we can remedy that very easily, Colonel. Bachelor's Grove Cemetery, thirty minutes. He goes in alone." Randy hung up.  
  
Hannibal glared the receiver before slamming it down.  
  
"You know a Bachelor's Grove Cemetery, BA?"  
  
BA frowned. "Yeah, it's kinda famous around here. Just a little place, abandoned. Folks go there huntin ghosts all the time."  
  
Hannibal sighed. "We're supposed to drop Clifton there at noon. You know the layout at all?"  
  
"Never been there, Hannibal. But I don't think it's far. Should have time to do a quick recon."  
  
"Okay, then. Let's go."  
  
They would be flying by the seat of their pants again, which wasn't unusual, but Hannibal didn't like it. They'd been doing too much of it on this job. Too much jumping when the gun went off, instead of shooting first. That had to change. And soon...  
  
*****  
  
Randy heard Sam moving around in the bedroom and sighed. Time to lower the boom. Again.  
  
He knocked and entered. Sam was sitting up in the bed, head held in his hands. He looked up blearily, trying to focus.  
  
"You alive?" Randy was not about to be sympathetic. That wasn't what Sam needed this morning.  
  
"Barely."  
  
"Good. I've got to call Smith soon. We won't have much time to get over to the cemetery and get set up. I want you on the outside, keeping an eye on things. I'll deal with Clifton and Smith."  
  
"Wait a minute..."  
  
"No, Sam, you wait a minute. After last night, there's no way in hell I'm putting you up against either one of them. This was your idea, but today you follow orders. I'm not going to let you screw this up because your head's not on straight. Got it?"  
  
A flash of anger swept over Sam's face, but he sighed and put his head back down on his hands. "Got it." He looked up, staring at the wall, not able to look at Randy. "Sorry about last night. That was stupid."  
  
"Yeah, it was. Now get ready to go. We haven't much time."  
  
Randy closed the door a little harder than necessary. Good. Sam was contrite, and yet that anger was simmering beneath. A perfect combination for today. Sam would follow orders to make it up to Randy, and he would vent that anger on the team and Clifton.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Sam came out, dressed and ready to go. He carried a long, flat case with him. After a quick, cold breakfast, they again slipped out of the apartment. Randy had already stowed the rest of their gear in the car. They would not be returning to Mrs. B.'s apartment.  
  
As Randy drove, Sam quickly slipped into camouflage fatigues in the back seat. They made one stop, to call Hannibal. It only took a few more minutes to arrive on the back side of the cemetery. Without a word, Sam stepped out of the car, assembled his sniper rifle, and headed off. He would station himself high in the trees, a spot they had picked out yesterday. They had found the cemetery after visiting the Historical Society. One glance at the information on the 'haunted cemetery' and they had grinned in unison. It seemed the perfect place.  
  
Randy climbed through a hole in the fence and stationed himself behind one of the few remaining monuments. The cemetery was over-grown and scattered with trash and vandalized stones. There were any number of places to hide in the jumble without being seen, and still have a view of the carelessly locked front gates. Randy glanced at his watch. They had made good time.  
  
He figured the team would arrive any minute.


	26. Chapter 26

"I want them found, and found NOW, Carla."  
  
"We're doing our best, General. We were able to trace Santana's car to a town in the Midwest. They put it in storage, for some unknown reason. They picked up a rental car, but we're not sure what it is. Several were rented that day, and no one at the rental office could identify the photos accurately. At the moment, we're attempting to trace all of them. We have been able to eliminate four so far."  
  
Stockwell looked at Carla as only Stockwell could. On the outside, he seemed calm, cold, professional. But his eyes were smoldering, threatening to burst into a full glare. "First Peck, now the rest of the team, and Clifton along with them. I hope you're not planning your own disappearing act, Carla. You seem to be the only one of this particular group left."  
  
Carla chose to ignore the sarcastic comment. "Peck was supposed to be doing reconnaissance, General. I assure you..."  
  
"Assure me of nothing, Carla, and then I'll know you're not lying to me - again." He swiveled his chair, stared at the door to his office. "You find them, Carla. Find them and get them to Oakwood. You have two days. Forty-eight hours."  
  
"General, I..."  
  
"And, Carla..." he swiveled back to look her square in the face, "all of your little games are over. Your first priority is the A-Team. And then I want to know who - exactly - is coming after us. You will have all the details on my desk just as soon as the Team is back in my pocket. Understood?"  
  
Carla had the grace to look abashed. "Yes, General."  
  
"Good. Because I really would hate to have any more of my personnel disappear..."  
  
*****  
  
They each had different reasons for wanting Clifton coming in alone. Sam saw it from a purely tactical point of view. Pure and simple, without the team backing him up, Clifton would be easier to take down. Not that he would go quietly; but the chances of those complications occurring would be much lower. Also, it created yet another diversion for the team, as if they needed another one. But they would be watching for Mrs. Baracus - although Sam knew Smith wouldn't really be expecting her to be there; they would also be watching to make sure Clifton didn't get away before they had Mrs. B., trying to make sure Clifton didn't create problems in general, and watching out for Randy and Sam. It was a lot more than just the old divide and conquer strategy in a physical sense; the team would also be mentally divided. It was perfect.  
  
While Randy saw and embraced the strategy, he had other reasons for wanting the team out of the picture as much as possible. First and foremost, Smith wouldn't be able to play any games with Sam's psyche, which, despite his professional demeanor, was definitely not rock solid right now. Almost as important was the fact that no member of the team would be put in any position to get injured. As much animosity as Randy felt toward the men, he had definite concerns for their welfare. He was not prepared to deal with Face's reaction should any real harm befall the team. All of which made him feel confident in his decision to have Sam up in the trees, keeping an eye on things. It went right back to Sam's aversion to complications; he would be able to control the team's movements without going too far. It would keep them all safe.  
  
A flash of birds rising into the air alerted him to company at the other end of the cemetery. He glanced up into the trees, looking for Sam. Nothing. He smiled. The man was good.  
  
He readied himself. He wasn't worried about taking down Clifton single-handed. He knew the type, if not the man himself. Knew his reputation. Knew that in order to accomplish this, he would have two choices. The first would be to talk the man into cooperating. Offer him the right incentive. That might work, but then, it might snow in July, too. He figured his second choice was the most likely. He would have to hurt him enough to incapacitate, but not cross that line. He never wanted to cross that line again. But that would be the difficult part. Clifton had been Barish's man, now belonged to Stockwell. Clifton worked for evil men, always had, always would. The fact that the evil existed on the side of good was only incidental. Given the right incentive, Clifton would work for the devil himself.  
  
Randy smiled. The hell with the first choice. This guy had to pay.  
  
*****  
  
Sam had pulled himself painfully up into the tallest of the old trees. His head was pounding and he cursed his own stupidity for last night. Letting that photo album get to him. If it hadn't been so unexpected, he would have known better. Randy shouldn't have been taken in so easily. They should have realized that Stockwell and Barish would have taken all contingencies into mind when they first set up this whole experiment. Naturally, they would have photos of Sam with the team. It didn't take much to make up a set to look like Nam. Dress everybody up like SF, snap some photos, all ready to bring Sam back into the fold. The perfect setup for when the experiment ended. Probably did the whole thing while Sam and Randy were being 'prepped' for their roles. He berated himself for not figuring it out last night.  
  
That left the question of Mrs. Baracus. How had they convinced her to play along? Threatened her son? Very possible. A sudden thought struck him. He didn't know Mrs. B. from Adam. All he knew of her was what the team had told him. How the hell did Sam know she even existed? She could just be another of Stockwell's people. Shit. She would have reported in to Stockwell, let him know Face had shown up. And what about the team? If that woman really wasn't Baracus' mother, they wouldn't care what happened to her. This could all be a set up, a trap. They wouldn't worry about the exchange, only about taking out Randy and Sam...shit.  
  
He shifted, ever so slightly. The stakes had just risen. Randy was down there, alone, not realizing the kind of mess they'd gotten into. So it would be up to Sam to make sure nothing happened. Make sure the team didn't pull anything. Sam was the only one who knew their opponents really had nothing to lose, knew that that woman was merely a plant. The only one who would know to be watching for Stockwell's Ables to show up. The only one who could really keep Randy safe. Just like before...  
  
He would have to make sure the team couldn't function. There was only one way to ensure that.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal stared across the road, at the path which led down to the cemetery entrance. A narrow path, overgrown, covered by the branches of the close growing trees. According to BA, who only had a few scattered stories about the place, the entrance should be down that path, out of sight from the road. Randy and Sam could be anywhere in the brush, in the trees, anywhere between here and the cemetery, in the cemetery...damn. It was a logistical nightmare.  
  
The only thing the team had going for them at the moment was the knowledge that Mrs. B. would not be here. Exchange or not, Face was too good a tactician to have brought her along. Not only would he not want to deal with her at the same time as the team and Clifton, he would want to be able to send the team after her, getting them away from the cemetery and ensuring a successful escape. Even if only part of the team went after her, it would still increase Face's odds of success. At the same time, it allowed Hannibal a little more flexibility in what he would or would not do. Randy and Sam would not be together. All the team had to do was find one of them before the shit hit the fan. Find one, the other was theirs.  
  
Piece of cake.  
  
So why didn't he believe it would be that simple? Because Hannibal, in Face's position, would make sure it was anything but simple.  
  
The men began to walk down the path. Randy had only said Clifton should go into the cemetery alone. Once they came within sight of the entrance, the team would split up. Face, of course, would be expecting that. But there was little they could do about it. Two men couldn't cover the whole area and deal with Clifton. There was always a possibility of booby traps, but Hannibal didn't think they'd had time for that. This was too much of a rush job. At the same time, he knew they would be watched. As they moved quietly along the path, Hannibal started watching the trees. Face would be up there. Someplace.  
  
BA had been leading the way, and came to a sudden stop. Looking ahead, Hannibal could just see the front gate, hanging askew. He looked around, slowly, carefully. He saw nothing, but then, he wasn't expecting to.  
  
"All right, Clifton, you're on. You go in, and do exactly what you're told. They have no intention of killing you - they're after the information you have. The less trouble you give them, the quicker we can get to the hostage and the quicker we can come back for you."  
  
"You really think they're not going to find the bug? My understanding is these guys are pro's, just like you and me."  
  
"I know. Don't worry about it. We'll have you covered."  
  
"Don't worry about it? Just what have you got in mind, Smith?"  
  
Hannibal smiled sweetly. "I always have something in mind, Clifton. Now get in there and do what you're supposed to." He gave him a little shove, pulling his rifle up. With a hard glare, the assassin moved toward the gate.  
  
"He's right, Johnny. They'll find that bug right off. Then what?"  
  
"Then we'll track him with the other one."  
  
"What other one? I didn't know about a second one. Where?"  
  
"Somewhere no one is going to look." Smiling at Frankie's confusion, Hannibal elaborated. "Remember that pill we slipped Clifton last night? After Randy called back? BA and I did a little dental work while he was slumbering."  
  
"He don't know about it?"  
  
"No. If he did, he'd just tell them. Clifton is going to look out for himself; if that means making a deal with Randy and Face, he will. And that would include giving them any tracking devices he knows about. I'm just hedging our bets. Now, let's get in position. I want to make sure these guys don't leave until we know Mrs. B. is safe. And remember, Frankie - don't just watch the ground."  
  
Frankie gulped and moved over toward Murdock, as Hannibal and BA left the path and moved toward the western perimeter. Slowly, the four men began surrounding the small cemetery.


	27. Chapter 27

Randy heard the crunch of footsteps on ancient gravel. He waited until they got within a few yards of his position before showing himself. He swung gracefully up and pointed the pistol over the top of the monument, aiming deadly true at the man's heart.  
  
"Mr. Clifton, I presume?" He smiled, confident, friendly.  
  
Clifton looked at him, looked at the gun, bored. "Randy. Wondered if I would ever see you again."  
  
"Ah, you have me at a disadvantage. I don't recall our having met before." Randy kept the smile, but his mind was working a mile a minute. He knew Clifton had been Barish's man; he hadn't known the man had been involved in the experiment. Clifton had been a cleanup man. That meant he wouldn't have come in until the very end...  
  
"We didn't actually meet. We had a mutual acquaintance..."  
  
"Dr. Barish. I know. He's dead."  
  
"Yes, I know. I killed him."  
  
"Ah. It would appear I owe you one, then. However, at the moment, we have other, more pressing, business to attend to."  
  
"Stockwell."  
  
"Exactly. How deep is your loyalty to the man?"  
  
"He's my employer. I do what he asks and I get compensated very well for it. If it weren't to my advantage, I'd leave."  
  
"Hmm. I thought so. You know what we want, of course."  
  
"Yes. I haven't decided whether you'll get it or not."  
  
Randy actually laughed aloud at that. The man was a cool one, that's for sure.  
  
"Well, I guess time will tell, won't it? All right, I'm sure your friends are nearly in position by now. We haven't much time. Strip."  
  
Clifton started. "Strip?"  
  
Randy threw a small knapsack over to him. "Put those on, and be quick about it. Smith wouldn't let you go without some way of keeping track of you and I haven't time for a thorough search."  
  
Without another word of argument, Clifton grabbed the knapsack and pulled the clothes from it. In moments, he was changed. He stood to find Randy beside him.  
  
"Not that I don't trust you, but..." Randy swung hard and fast, knocking Clifton unconscious.  
  
*****  
  
Sam watched as the team split up. From his vantage point in the high tree, he could watch them easily, making particular note of where Smith was. He saw Santana moving in tandem with the pilot on the far side. They wouldn't be much threat, too far from Randy. Baracus was moving in closer, on the near side with Smith. Sam wasn't sure about that one. There was always a chance the woman really was his mother, and that would make him dangerous. No. Forget that. Sam knew she wasn't. But Baracus was dangerous anyway. Single-minded and Smith's dog.  
  
He turned slightly, getting a better view of Smith. He was cautious, knowing the Colonel was watching the trees. But no one saw Sam unless Sam wanted them to. Not even the great Colonel John Smith. If it came, Smith wouldn't know it until it was too late.  
  
He waited for Randy to make the next move.  
  
*****  
  
Quickly tying Clifton's hands behind him, Randy dragged the unconscious man back behind the monument. He took another swift glance upwards, knowing Sam was there but still not seeing him. Now for the diversion. He wondered how many would leave.  
  
"Smith! You kept your end of the bargain. Now it's my turn."  
  
Silence.  
  
"You want Mrs. Baracus, I suggest you answer me, Smith. I'm more than willing to just walk away with my prize."  
  
"I'm listening." The call came from Randy's right, some distance yet. Sam wouldn't let any of them get too close.  
  
"The old woman isn't here, you know." That ought to raise some hackles. Randy grinned. "But then, you knew that, right? You're a smart boy."  
  
"You going to hold up your end of the bargain or not?"  
  
Randy chuckled. "Oh, of course, Colonel. But you're going to have to work a little more. I'm going to give you four addresses. Mrs. Baracus is at one of them. Unfortunately, we weren't able to make her real comfortable. In fact, I would say she's probably got, oh, maybe another half hour, forty-five minutes until she starts getting real uncomfortable. So I would suggest you get moving pretty quickly. In fact, you might want to consider splitting up, because I don't think you'll get to all four in time."  
  
"All right, Murdock, Frankie, BA, listen up. Let's have them, now."  
  
Randy could have laughed out loud. Quickly, he rattled off four addresses, each of which would send the team in a different direction from the cemetery. He listened for a moment, hearing the men hurrying through the underbrush. Grinning from ear to ear, he turned and grabbed his prize from behind the monument, and, throwing Clifton over his shoulder, began the walk to the back of the cemetery.  
  
*****  
  
Once they had reached the path again, the four team members raced for their car. But Hannibal pulled up short before getting in.  
  
"C'mon, Hannibal, we ain't got all day!" BA was already gunning the engine.  
  
"Hang on, BA. Do you know where each of these places are?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Why?"  
  
"Because I'm thinking we don't have to split up, at least not all of us. What's at your address?"  
  
BA thought for a moment. His scowl got deeper. "Just a couple gas stations and some stores. Nothin there that could be dangerous to her."  
  
"What about the others? Frankie? Your address?"  
  
Again, BA thought about the address Frankie rattled off. "More of the same - there was an old warehouse but it was gutted a long time ago. They coulda done somethin there."  
  
Hannibal went over the address Murdock had, and then his own. One address was an unknown, the other residential.  
  
"Okay, BA, you take Frankie and hit the warehouse and Murdock's. Then go for the other two. I have a feeling this is a bigger wild goose chase than it appears. Murdock, you and I are going back in. Drop us at the other end of the cemetery, BA."  
  
Moments later, Hannibal and Murdock stepped quickly from the car and watched it speed away. They gave each other only a glance before heading for the backside of the cemetery.  
  
*****  
  
Sam watched the activities on the ground with keen interest. He was surprised when the four men headed for the car. They wouldn't leave Clifton like that, unless that woman really was BA's mother. But that wasn't possible...unless she was being coerced. But how could Stockwell have known they would go after her? No way. She could have called him after talking to Sam on their way up there, but why would she call Stockwell and deliberately open herself up to blackmail by the General? Sam could feel his head pounding. None of this made sense any more.  
  
And then he saw Hannibal stop, and start talking with the men already in the car. They talked for a couple of minutes before Hannibal got in and they pulled out. Now what were they up to?  
  
He lost sight of the car as the treetops hid the road from view. If it hadn't been for the glint of sunlight off the window, he might not have seen it stop at the far side of the cemetery. He saw two people get out before the car sped away again.  
  
He knew it. He relaxed, then raised his rifle, carefully sighting through the scope.  
  
*****  
  
They were traveling through the brush quickly, but trying to remain as quiet as possible. They needed to take Randy with as little fuss as possible; any injury to his friend would only make Face more angry, harder to deal with. Hannibal was hoping they had enough cover to keep out of Face's sight; there was a slim chance he had already come down from the trees to join Randy.  
  
They came to a small clearing. Across the way, they could see another car. Movement to the left took their attention. Randy, carrying Clifton over his shoulder. Hannibal didn't like the layout one bit. They would have to either cross the clearing in record speed to take Randy down before either he or Face saw them, or try to go around and get to the car before Randy could. Neither option was good. Hannibal looked at Murdock, who just shrugged. They both knew the odds weren't the greatest for a clean job, but they had to do it, one way or the other. As usual, Hannibal opted for the front door. With a nod at Murdock, they started running across the clearing.  
  
*****  
  
Randy moved quickly through the cemetery, shifting Clifton's body occasionally. Reaching the fence, he dropped Clifton roughly to the ground and stepped through the gap. He looked carefully around, not really thinking anyone would be there, mainly out of habit. Seeing no one, knowing Sam would still be watching for any tricks, he turned and dragged his hostage through.  
  
He was halfway to their car when he heard the shot.  
  
*****  
  
He tracked them through the underbrush, occasionally losing them, almost immediately picking them up again through the scope. Every now and then, he would glance down at Randy, gauging his progress, then immediately going back to the two men.  
  
He watched, tense, as they converged on Randy's path. Saw them hesitate at the edge of the clearing. He glanced again at Randy. He was carrying Clifton on his right shoulder, blocking his view of the clearing and the men coming after him.  
  
Sam steadied himself, slowed his breathing. Took aim. As the two men took off across the clearing, he squeezed the trigger. The first man fell, the second man dropping almost immediately to his knees beside him.  
  
The rifle dropped heavily through the branches, unnoticed. Paying no attention to the branches scratching and poking at him, he slid down the tree, dropping heavily to the ground. He stood for a moment, trying to catch his breath, not thinking. From somewhere, his mind told him to start moving, to go to Randy. Get to the car, make their getaway.  
  
Stumbling through the brush, Face fought to block the screaming in his head...


	28. Chapter 28

Instinctively, Randy dropped to a crouch, sliding Clifton roughly to the ground beside him. He wasn't sure where the shot had come from, who it was aimed at. He took in the surrounding area quickly, efficiently, and saw the pilot kneeling beside a body. Looked closer, saw the body was moving, hands trying to stifle the blood flow from a wound high up on the leg. Damn, this wasn't supposed to happen!  
  
He watched cautiously as Murdock pressed his hands over the Colonel's, putting pressure on the wound. Randy hesitated only a moment, then, still crouched, raced the last few yards to the car. Pulling the keys, he popped open the trunk and grabbed the med kit from their belongings. Whatever the reason for Sam shooting the man, there was no way Randy was going to walk away from it. If anything happened to Colonel Smith...  
  
*****  
  
Murdock swung his rifle up as Randy hurried toward them. No way this bastard was going to finish the job...  
  
Randy stopped short, held the med kit off to the side, his other hand up in the air.  
  
"You can shoot me or let me help, the choice is yours."  
  
"Help? You got him shot..."  
  
"Murdock..." Both men started at Hannibal's voice. "Murdock, let him...not much choice..."  
  
"Colonel..."  
  
"Captain, I really...don't want to bleed to death..."  
  
With a final glare at Randy, Murdock put his weapon on the ground, keeping it close. Randy stepped up, quickly flipping open the med kit. Without further conversation, the two men started cleaning and bandaging the wound.  
  
*****  
  
He ran through the brush, no longer sure which direction he was going. He kept hearing the shot, seeing the Colonel fall. Other pictures were shooting through his head, as well. Pictures he didn't understand, people he didn't know, places he'd never been. All the things Hannibal had told him, the team had told him, all the past he couldn't believe, all the lies...but they pushed through anyway. He had to get to Randy. Get back to reality.  
  
Get rid of that voice screaming in his head, accusing him...  
  
*****  
  
BA was muttering angrily as he took the last corner and Frankie kept as close to the door as possible. They were pulling up to the first address after racing through traffic and Frankie was feeling more than a bit queasy. He hadn't liked the ride, didn't like the looks of the dilapidated building, and was more than nervous about what they might find there. He knew Hannibal didn't think they'd find anything, or he never would have sent Frankie with BA, but all the same...  
  
BA had a good memory for his Chicago, as the address they'd been given matched the warehouse. The building was sagging at the roofline, and there was no sign anyone but vandals had been inside for years. It took BA only a few moments to find a door that had been broken open; a quick look in the empty, echoing building told them no one was inside, and certainly there had been no one there in some time. BA's muttering grew more agitated as he hurried back to the car, Frankie scurrying to keep up. The next address was an unknown, but BA figured it would take a good ten minutes to get there. Based on Randy's timetable, they would have just over twenty minutes to check it out and get to the other two.  
  
Frankie hoped Johnny was right about this being a diversion...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal watched Randy as carefully as he could through the pain. The man's expression was grim and concentrated, which was expected, but he kept glancing up, toward the cemetery. Each time, there was a flash of anxiety. Hannibal knew Randy was waiting for Face, knew things weren't supposed to have happened like this; he really had not planned on anyone getting seriously hurt. Hadn't expected it. Especially hadn't expected it from Face. And that worried Hannibal as much as he knew it was worrying Randy.  
  
Murdock tied off the bandage and Hannibal grimaced as the knot tightened on his leg. He knew he had been lucky. Another inch or two to the left and the bullet would have sliced through the artery. Was it luck, too, that he'd been hit in the leg and not the head or chest? Or had Face done that deliberately? A mix of protecting Randy and anger at Hannibal, but coupled with some remnant of the real Face? Enough of a remnant to keep him from killing Hannibal outright?  
  
Randy stood, looked once more toward the cemetery. Murdock stood also, picking up his rifle as he did. Hannibal didn't like the look on the pilot's face. Randy glanced at Hannibal before fixing his glare on Murdock.  
  
"Murdock..." Hannibal disgustedly noticed how weak his voice sounded. "Let him go. Face won't let you take Randy, you know that."  
  
Murdock's glare moved from Randy to Hannibal for a split second, but the gun remained directed at Randy.  
  
"He's right, Murdock. Sam's not going to like you pointing that thing at me. And don't forget our little guest, Clifton. You really think you can handle three very uncooperative prisoners, and take care of your Colonel? That's just a little on the superhuman side, my friend."  
  
Murdock shifted the weapon, tightened his grip.  
  
"Captain, let him go. We've got enough to deal with." When Murdock still hesitated, Hannibal forced all the strength he had into his voice. "That's an order, Captain."  
  
Hannibal saw Randy step away, heard him running. Murdock stood, gun dropping away, pointing at the ground. Hannibal breathed a sigh of relief. As long as no one ended up knocking Clifton's teeth out, the team would have time to find them again. Right now, he just wanted a nice, comfortable hospital bed...  
  
*****  
  
He stumbled against the fence, his eyes on the car. He didn't see Randy. Where was he? He was supposed to meet him at the car. He was supposed to be there. He was supposed to...  
  
He saw him then, kneeling over the Colonel...working with Murdock. Working on Smith. Why? Why was Randy helping them? They were the enemy. The team wanted to stop them. Why would Randy help them? What was going on?  
  
He stepped back away from the fence, melting into the brush. The images he thought he'd pushed back came clamoring in again. Watching the three men, he saw, not Randy, but Face working on the colonel. The Chicago field turned green and overgrown, traffic noise from the nearby highway disappeared amidst the sound of nearby shelling. He could feel the soggy clinging of humidity-drenched clothing, smell the overpowering odor of rotting vegetation.  
  
It was a lie...he'd never been with these men...never. But the images kept coming, relentlessly, over and over. Hannibal was there, wounded, and he and Murdock had had to wrap up his leg wound before BA had helped haul his ass over to the chopper...he remembered holding onto Hannibal as they'd pulled abruptly up from the jungle floor, keeping him still, telling him to hang on...landing at the base, running alongside the stretcher as the medics raced to the triage area...covered in Hannibal's blood...refusing to leave until the doc's told him his colonel was okay...  
  
His colonel...lies...Hannibal...it had to be...lies...  
  
*****  
  
Randy didn't wait for Murdock's reaction, knowing that none of Smith's men would disobey a direct order. And he had bigger fish to fry now. He'd seen Sam come to the corner of the cemetery fence, hesitate, and then move back into the woods. Randy raced toward him.  
  
It took him a few moments to find him. He was standing perfectly still, looking off into space. Randy stopped, approaching him quietly, but keeping in view. He didn't like the look on Sam's face; confusion, anger. Who knew what might happen if Randy startled him?  
  
"Sam?"  
  
Sam's eyes slowly focused on Randy. He frowned, still seeming confused.  
  
"Sam, we need to get moving. Now, before Baracus and Santana get back here. Sam? You with me here?"  
  
Sam slowly nodded, but didn't move. Cautiously, Randy reached over, gently grasped Sam's arm. "C'mon, buddy, let's go to the car. Okay?"  
  
Again, Sam nodded. Together they moved toward the car. Minutes later, they were on the road, heading west. Randy stopped once, at a strip mall, where he placed a quick call. Carla. No chit chat, no goading. Just gave her the location where he'd left Smith and Murdock. Two minutes later they were back on the road.  
  
Sam hadn't said a word.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock sat, dangling his cap in his fingers. Occasionally he would glance over at BA or Frankie. He ignored the two Ables who sat across the waiting room from them. Hannibal had been taken into surgery an hour before, and, at least according to the ER doctor, should be out anytime. The bullet had gone through his thigh, doing some damage to the muscle but otherwise was a clean wound. The doctor had said there shouldn't be any complications. Hannibal was a lucky man, according to him.  
  
Murdock wasn't feeling that lucky. He was totally confused. He had felt so angry, right up until Frankie had said something about it being a good thing Face hadn't wanted to kill Hannibal. That was when Murdock had finally realized the truth. Face was too good a shot to be off that much. Had he wanted to kill Hannibal, he would have.  
  
But then he also remembered the look on Randy's face when he'd come running up to them. Thinking back on it, Murdock realized that Randy really had not expected anything like this to happen. That he was as surprised and shocked as Murdock. And that's when Murdock knew that Randy had no more control over Face - or Sam - than the team had. And that's when he knew that Face was in deep trouble.  
  
*****  
  
Randy drove with determination, not caring where, as long as they left Chicago far behind. The original plan, to rent a house to work on Clifton, was out the window. He knew Carla would be running things now, running the team and the Ables, synchronizing the search. At this point, she would be calling in favors on Stockwell's behalf, contacting local, state, maybe even federal resources. Now they had a focal point, a time frame to work with. Murdock would be able to give a description of the car, of that he was sure. Carla would make sure the authorities knew the two men were armed and dangerous. Might even mention drugs. Definitely kidnapping. Make them into total monsters. Make sure they were returned to Stockwell in body bags if at all possible.  
  
He wasn't sure what the remains of the team would do. Baracus might be placated on one front. They had left a note at his mother's apartment, telling the man how to reach her. But then there was Smith. He had a feeling the rage Murdock had exhibited was nothing compared to Baracus' reaction. Put those two together, add in Santana - it wouldn't be good.  
  
They stopped for gas in a small off-the-beaten-path village. Randy noted a small station wagon parked in back as he came out of the restroom. Looked around. Nothing within sight of it. Drove the rental car around the block, coming up behind the station a few minutes later. He parked off to the side. It was late in the afternoon. The sign on the station door had said they closed at six. He would wait.  
  
He thought about Clifton, still tied up in the trunk. He'd had to stop once, when the prisoner's banging on the lid and shouting had gotten to be too much. He'd threatened to knock him over the head again if he didn't shut up. One look at Randy's face and Clifton had acquiesced. There hadn't been a sound out of him since. Once they had the station wagon, Clifton would be able to at least stretch out in the rear. For two cents, Randy would just leave him here in Podunk Holler and forget the whole thing. He had other, greater problems now.  
  
He looked over at Sam. His friend had not said a word since the cemetery. Had stared in front of him, hardly even blinking. Randy looked at Sam's hands, tightly clenched in his lap. There was slight tremble there. Randy wanted to talk to him, find out what the hell had happened back there, but he didn't dare. Not now. He had no idea what Sam might do. So he sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting.  
  
At five minutes after six, the gas station attendant stepped around the corner of the building, sauntering toward his car, head down as he sorted out his keys. He never saw Randy. Moments later he was deposited in the back seat of the rental car.  
  
Randy hauled a sore and stiff Clifton out of the trunk, and bundled him quickly into the back end of the station wagon. He quickly tossed a light-weight blanket over him, with a warning look. Clifton didn't open his mouth.  
  
It was harder getting Sam to move. He had to practically drag him from the car and over to the wagon. He spoke quietly, calmly. Finally Sam was seat-belted into the passenger seat, and Randy took the wheel. Making sure they had a full tank of gas, he pulled carefully away from the station and took a side street out of town.  
  
Randy figured they would be in Minneapolis within three to four hours. Hopefully Carla wouldn't think about looking there for a while longer. He glanced again at Sam.  
  
Hopefully she wouldn't think of it for a lot longer...


	29. Chapter 29

"I know you're stubborn, Clifton, but there's really no point to all of this. Eventually you will tell me what I want to know. You know as well as I do that that will happen. I'm not exactly an amateur at these things. I won't make the mistake of killing you. So why not cooperate and spare yourself the indignity?"  
  
Clifton looked back at Randy, expressionless. No, they wouldn't kill him. In fact, thus far, Randy had only talked. Offered deals, alternatives. Some had been very interesting, financially. All, of course, had meant spilling the beans, and thus a complete break with Stockwell. There was no way the General would be in any mood - or condition - to take him back after that. Which meant either going back to the government (fat chance of them trusting him again), or going solo. And that idea was rather attractive. However, giving in to Randy and Sam also raised all kinds of difficulties as to any future career choices. No one would really trust him as they did now. And that meant he would have to depend on the fear factor to keep his employers 'in line'. And fear was wearing on people. It meant he would be looking behind him. Always. Not a pleasant prospect at all.  
  
No, all in all, giving Randy and Sam what they wanted would be more detrimental to him in the long run than any rewards they could possibly offer. Which left him only one choice. Turn the tables on his kidnappers. Play the mind games on them instead, and then watch the fun.  
  
And it would be great fun. After all, these two owed him...  
  
*****  
  
Randy watched the glint come into Clifton's eye, and wearily shook his head. The man still thought he could get the upper hand. Stubborn, puffed-up son of a bitch. He walked out of the bedroom after re-adjusting Clifton's gag and double-checking the ropes tying him securely to the chair. He turned off the light and closed the door, leaving the prisoner in near total darkness. He would stay that way for a few hours. Then the 'friendly persuasion' would start again. He might even be offered something to drink.  
  
Randy walked softly into the living room, where Sam sat, nursing a beer, flipping between channels. Randy watched for a few minutes, until the same programs had been passed through three or four times. He sat down on the couch, giving Sam his space, and reached over, taking the remote carefully from his hand. Sam never said a word, just took a long draught from the bottle. Randy settled on an old movie, Cary Grant, and pretended to watch. Sam emptied the bottle, pulled another one from the cooler setting beside the couch. Randy sighed.  
  
"Want to tell me what happened out there, Sam?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Randy watched the movie for a few more minutes. Sam sipped the beer, steadily but not hurriedly. Randy waited until he had finished it and pulled out yet another bottle.  
  
"Smith got a little close, huh, Sam." It wasn't a question, just an obvious observation. "That's not why you shot him, though, is it?"  
  
Sam sipped his beer, said nothing.  
  
"We agreed no one got hurt, Sam. You coulda made them tap dance. Didn't have to hit him."  
  
"I know."  
  
"We agreed, Sam." Randy let a little of his anger come out. "What happened to that?"  
  
"It was a setup."  
  
Randy looked over at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Baracus' so-called mother. She was in on it."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about, Sam? How could she be in on it?"  
  
"If she'd been the real deal, Smith and Murdock wouldn't have stayed behind. They'd'a been hell-bent to find her. But instead..." He shrugged. "That's why she knew which one of us was supposed to be Face. Why she had those fake pictures. It was all a setup. Right from the start."  
  
"Sam, that's..." he almost said 'crazy', but thought better of it. "How could they know we'd go after her, Sam? We didn't even know until we got to Indianapolis. And no one knew we'd end up there."  
  
"Smith knew. He led us there. That was the plan all along. He knew, once we got that close to Chicago, that I'd think of her." He calmly took another, longer, sip of beer. "That changed the rules, Randy."  
  
Randy looked at the bottles piling up on the floor, and started wishing he'd had a few of those, himself. One way or another, Sam was going to fit the facts to his fantasy.  
  
"Okay, Sam. So what other rules have changed?"  
  
"I don't know yet. I have to think about it."  
  
"About what?"  
  
Sam finished off the beer, stood, amazingly steady on his feet, and headed for the empty bedroom. He stopped at the door, looked back at Randy, contemplating.  
  
"Giving aid and comfort to the enemy." He nodded his head slowly. "I have to think about that." He closed the bedroom door behind him.  
  
*****  
  
"Well, you've managed to fuck this up very nicely, Colonel." Carla's voice grated on Hannibal's ears, not to mention her words. Amazing the vocabulary people discovered when they were stressed out. And Carla was stressed out major league. Hannibal smiled to himself. At least something good had come of this latest fiasco.  
  
"I wouldn't worry too much, Carla. I'll be out of here in the morning and we'll go after them."  
  
"Oh, and you're going to find them just like that, when all of these other trained agents, police, and feds can't?"  
  
"Piece of cake, Carla." Hannibal grinned openly at her this time.  
  
"You may think this is funny, Colonel Smith, but I assure you that neither I nor the General see it that way. He is not happy about Peck. And his unhappiness is not only with me. Your pardons are looking more and more 'encumbered', Colonel. And Peck's..."  
  
"Face goes with the territory, Carla. You make damn sure Stockwell knows that. Any problem the good General has with him, he can lay at his own door. You can also remind Stockwell that this whole mess started with his getting in bed with Barish."  
  
"Maybe you should discuss this directly with..."  
  
"No, Carla, you're his little errand girl. So you go back to Stockwell and tell him from now on, I'm dealing with Face and Randy on my own. Me, and my team. And when we've got his house in order for him, we'll talk some more about those pardons. If I need anything from him - or you - I'll let him know." Hannibal stared at her for a long moment, then deliberately closed his eyes.  
  
Carla glared at him, knowing full well he would ignore anything further that she had to say. Without another word, she stomped out of the hospital room, glaringly ignoring Murdock, BA and Frankie, who were sitting outside his room, waiting.  
  
The three men glanced at each other, grinning, and went in to see their leader.  
  
*****  
  
"Still nothing, Clifton? Still being stubborn? Why, John? Why not give up Stockwell, let him rot in hell where he belongs?"  
  
Randy kept his voice soft, low, reasonable. He could barely make out Clifton's face in the darkened room. He'd removed the gag, but not offered any water. Not yet. He knew the man still had some idea of what time it was, but that would change. The longer he went with little or no water, no food, no light, the less sure of things he would become. The less confidant. The more confused. The more desperate. And eventually, after a few days, maybe a week, he would tell Randy everything he wanted to know. Everything he asked for, everything he didn't.  
  
Randy hadn't waited for this interview. He'd sat for a few minutes, watching the door Sam had closed, wondering. Worrying. Things were getting out of control. It was not working the way it was supposed to. He hadn't considered Sam's reaction to his helping Smith. No good deed, Randy...trying to make sure Smith was okay so Sam wouldn't go to pieces. But he was unraveling anyway. The facts were going their independent way, and Sam was pulling them back into a tight little ball that wound the way he wanted it to, the way he needed it to. Rearranging them so they fit into the world he wanted for his reality. And now Randy had done something that definitely did not fit into that world and Sam had to figure out how to rearrange that. Until he did, Randy knew he would have to watch his back.  
  
He never planned on that.  
  
So, unsure, he moved into his own world, where he knew what to do, what to expect. And that meant dealing with John Clifton. That was alright. In a way, it worked to his advantage. Clifton hadn't expected another workout so soon.  
  
"John, John, John...why, John? You don't want to be here, do you? You really don't want to be working for someone like Stockwell any more, do you? You could be free, John. Free. To do your own thing, work for whomever you like. A free agent, John. Free..."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had gleefully recapped his conversation with Carla, then frowned when his team shifted uncomfortably instead of joining in the fun. No one would look him in the eye.  
  
"Okay, guys, what's going on? You get hold of your mother, BA?" Hannibal had a moment's anxiety.  
  
"Yeah, she's fine. Madder'n a wet hen, but okay. Her flight's gonna be in later tonight."  
  
"Good. Then you'll have a chance to see her before we leave."  
  
"Yeah." BA scowled, looked out of the window.  
  
"So what's the problem? The tracker?"  
  
"No, that was working just fine until they moved out of range. Headed west, northwest."  
  
Hannibal grinned. "I knew it. Heading back to Minneapolis. Well, we should be able to get there by mid-morning, right? Then we'll pick up their trail again. Piece of cake, right?" He looked expectantly at his men. They nodded, but none of them looked any happier.  
  
"Okay. Enough. Someone better start talking or we'll be hitting the obstacle course before we go anywhere else."  
  
Frankie shifted his feet, looking at the other two.  
  
"Frankie, it appears you've been elected. Now out with it."  
  
"Well, it's, uh, it's just...Face, Johnny. And what he did. And you putting his pardon in with the rest..." Frankie glanced desperately at Murdock, then BA. Neither offered any support. "Damn, Johnny, it just doesn't seem right, y'know?"  
  
"No, I don't know, Frankie." He looked angrily around. "Murdock, you seem unusually quiet. You agree with this?"  
  
"He could've killed you, Hannibal. Even Randy wasn't expecting that. He's out of control. That's obvious now, isn't it?"  
  
"BA? He didn't hurt your mother in the slightest. You think he's not a part of the team? That he's not worth fighting for?"  
  
"He shot you, Hannibal. And he used my mother, whether he hurt her or not. Ain't right."  
  
Hannibal looked at them, one at a time. None could look him in the eye. Okay. They weren't really decided then.  
  
"Do any of you think Face would be acting like this if he were himself?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Do you think Face would turn his back on any of you, if you were in his place? Murdock? How many times has he gone along with your problems, helped you through the really rough spots? Would you have expected the rest of us to turn our backs when you had problems? Those first years? BA, you think we should've tossed Murdock on the scrap heap back then?"  
  
Silence again.  
  
"All right then. Tomorrow morning I'm outta here at first daylight. And then we're going after Face. And we are bringing him home. Period!"


	30. Chapter 30

He lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd heard Randy go back into the other room, where Clifton was, and heard the soft murmuring. Idly, he wondered how long 'Superman' would hold out. Surely he'd been trained in dealing with this kind of interrogation. Probably experienced it many times. Obviously had never succumbed before. So what made Randy think it would work this time? Clifton's dislike of Stockwell? Or was Randy just stubborn enough to believe he could outlast Clifton? Sam chuckled at that. He knew Randy well enough to believe he just might.  
  
But that thought just led him right back to his present dilemma. Randy helping Smith. That was counter to everything they had done so far. And yet...he and Randy had agreed. In fact, it was Sam who had been so concerned that Randy would not hold up his end of the bargain. Was that why? Randy was just trying to fulfill his promise?  
  
That made more sense than the alternative. Yeah. Randy was not so much helping Smith as he was keeping his promise to Sam. And it was, after all, Sam who had broken the agreement. With good cause, of course, but still...  
  
He shouldn't have done it. He should have just warned them off, as agreed. Maybe if he had, then Face wouldn't have made such a strong attempt to come back. Force the lies back into his head. Damn. That had been bad. The programming had been strong, much stronger than he had realized. False memories that even the team hadn't tried to give him, pushing through the barriers he'd erected. Where had they come from? Stockwell? Barish?  
  
Barish. That son of a bitch. He was glad Clifton had taken care of him. Saved Sam from having to do it. And he would have had to, eventually. Stop him from ever doing it again; stop him from coming after him and Randy again. Sam could have handled it, he knew that. Barish may have played games with him, but it was Randy he'd totally screwed up. Even now, Randy was still vulnerable to the games. That was obvious, the way he kept trying to convince Sam that Face was real. Maybe that was another reason why he'd helped Smith. Yeah. That made even more sense. Randy thought there really was a connection between Sam and the team.  
  
Sam smiled. It all made sense now. He should've thought this all out earlier, instead of letting the confusion take over. He was a rational man, a thoughtful man. He didn't usually give in to fantasies and lies. Well, it wouldn't happen again.  
  
Still smiling, Sam got up and headed into the other room, to join Randy. They had work to do.  
  
*****  
  
He lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Murdock's words kept coming back to him. "He's out of control." He didn't want to admit it, but it was true. What Murdock didn't realize, what Hannibal had only come to know, was that he'd never been under control. Not with Barish, not with Randy, not even with the Team. There had always been that kernel of independence, that snag in his personality, that kept anyone from totally controlling him. Hell, not even the Church had been able to make him conform as a child. That's what made him such a good XO. That's what had allowed him to pull Randy away from Barish in the first place. But it was also what had kept him from just accepting the truth the team had given him.  
  
Out of control. Or doing what he had to, to preserve what he had chosen for reality? Difficult to do, keep the lies coherent, deny the facts, manipulate the truth to fit what he wanted. What he needed. Scamming himself, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But what did Face really want? Hannibal thought he'd known, assumed, like the rest of the team, that Face wanted the excitement of high-powered wheeling and dealing, wanted to be a player, wanted the chance to make it big in the real world. He'd accepted that facade that Face had lived for so many years. Now, surprisingly, Hannibal found himself thinking that what Face really wanted was boredom.  
  
Okay, maybe not boredom per se. But the kind of boredom that meant he was in control, where he didn't need to worry about getting beaten up, or shot, or imprisoned. Where the team was an interlude, an aberration he was drawn to, the excitement that let him know he was alive, and yet he could step away from it whenever he wanted and go back to a life like anyone else could live. Where he could playfully tweak the system and still be safe. That was Face.  
  
So who was Sam? Why did Face choose him over reality? Hannibal should have realized this so much sooner. He would have if he hadn't been so damn stubborn; it would have made things so much easier. Face chose Sam because Sam had that normal life, had always had that normal life. Sam had a family, a mother, a father, maybe even siblings. Sam hadn't spent a lifetime in one institution or another. Sam had a job, a career, that gave him the adrenaline rush he craved, and yet one from which he could step away when the task was completed and go back to his normal life, a life that had an everyday, dull, secure history, where everything didn't depend on the latest threat. A life that wasn't a newly-scammed apartment, under a newly-assumed name, with a newly-invented past, that wouldn't blow apart if the wrong people showed up. Sam had everything Face wanted. Sam had himself.  
  
And the team threatened that. Stockwell threatened that. They were the enemy that had to be stopped, had to be kept from destroying everything Face wanted to have. Everything he did have, as Sam.  
  
And what about Randy? How did he fit into this perfect life Face had found? That was easy. Randy was the common bond between reality and falsehood. Without Randy, without the joint experience, Face would be in total freefall. Randy was the anchor that kept Face from being dragged away into chaos when his realities clashed. As long as Randy stayed consistent, as long as Randy stayed Randy and allowed Sam to stay Sam, then everything was fine. Everything was safe. Everything could be explained, however convoluted that explanation. Randy allowed Sam to live, allowed Sam's life to be the truth. Allowed Face to live in that world, so preferable to his own. Randy validated Sam's existence.  
  
But what would happen when Randy failed to maintain that fantasy? How had Randy dealt with Sam after the shooting? How had Face reacted to Randy helping Hannibal? Had he been able to explain it away, or had it created a rift between them that Sam couldn't explain away? If Face lost Randy, then what? Would he finally be forced to accept the truth of the team, of Templeton Peck? What if he did, and came back on his own? Hannibal paused in his thoughts. What would happen if his own plan succeeded, and the team found Face and forced him back? What would he have?  
  
Besides a life he didn't want to own, he'd be facing a team that no longer trusted him, accepted him, or wanted him. Because, despite his determination of last night, Hannibal knew the guys weren't convinced of Face's 'innocence'. Hannibal could make them act like they accepted Face, but he couldn't make them believe it. And Face would see right through that. Hannibal had a harsh reality of his own, now. If Sam disappeared, Face had no place to go.  
  
Hannibal closed his eyes, frustrated. How the hell had things gotten so complicated?  
  
*****  
  
The sudden light from the doorway made Clifton squint. He couldn't tell if it was natural light, meaning it was sometime in the day, or artificial light, meaning it was night. He didn't dwell on it. He knew better. The only way to get through the disorientation was not to think about time at all. Just let his body decide when to sleep, when to wake, accept the interrogations as they came. He was hungry and thirsty, but he could live with that. For now. Especially now. He'd been waiting to get the two of them in here together. Now he just had to keep his head on straight, long enough to do a little damage of his own.  
  
He couldn't see the two men moving around, but he could hear them. Almost feel them as they came closer to him. He waited for one of them to speak, to clarify who was where.  
  
"Randy tells me you aren't being very cooperative, Clifton. Why make it so hard on yourself? You know it can only end one way."  
  
Ah, Sam. Slightly behind him, to the right. That meant Randy was the one in front, a couple feet away.  
  
"I don't believe that's the only outcome." His voice was a little harsh from lack of water, but still strong. Good.  
  
"Oh, we know. You've been trained to deal with this kind of thing." Randy spoke now. Still calm, still measured, reasonable. "But do you really think you can outlast the two of us? Is that realistic, John?"  
  
"I won't have to outlast you."  
  
"And why is that, John?" Sam again.  
  
"Because, Face, you'll self-destruct long before I do."  
  
There was a long pause before Sam responded. "If you think baiting me with that name is going to help you, Clifton, you're so wrong..."  
  
"Why do you think we'll self-destruct?" Randy coming to the rescue.  
  
"Because you don't know the can of worms you're trying to open, Randy. Apparently Face isn't the only one with memory problems. Either that or you have a huge capacity for forgiveness."  
  
Another long pause.  
  
"If you're trying to play games, Clifton, it won't work. We've played with the master. And won."  
  
"Did you? Well, possibly. But it still amazes me."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"That you've so completely forgiven Sam for what he did to you."  
  
"I didn't do anything to Randy. I helped him. We helped each other."  
  
"Oh, I know you did - after. But before..."  
  
"Before?"  
  
"When the experiment first started. Feeding Randy those pills all the time. Reporting so diligently back to Barish. Making sure Randy did what he was supposed to. The perfect guinea pig. All thanks to you, Sam."  
  
"Sam had no choice. He was as much a part of the experiment as I was."  
  
"No, Sam wasn't part of the experiment, Randy. Face was. It was Face who had no choice. It was Sam who went along with everything. Willingly."  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about. Face never even existed." Clifton could hear the tension in Sam's voice. "And I got Randy away from Barish."  
  
"But not right away. You waited. Waited until you started screwing things up. Like Florida. When you let Randy get away from you, let him get the shit beaten out of him. You knew your own skin was on the line then, didn't you, Sam? You had no choice but to get the hell out."  
  
"That...that's not true..."  
  
"You're lying..."  
  
"Am I? Really? What do you remember about Florida, Randy?"  
  
Yet another long pause. Clifton knew to keep his mouth shut this time.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Randy, that wasn't how it was. Barish was going to pull the plug..."  
  
"On who, Sam? Randy - or you?"  
  
"Shut up, Clifton! C'mon, Sam, outta here. Now!"  
  
There was a shuffling around, the blinding light from the doorway, and Clifton watched as the two men practically fell out of the door. In their rush to escape, they'd forgotten the gag. The door slammed shut, leaving Clifton in darkness once again.  
  
Too dark for anyone to see the grin on his face.


	31. Chapter 31

The two men sat at opposite sides of the living room. Sam was nursing a beer. Randy stared out of the window, watching the various people wandering past on their way to their jobs, their lives in order, mundane, predictable. So unlike his own.  
  
He forced his eyes from the window to his friend. The man he'd considered his friend. The man who wouldn't look him in the eye now, who just sat on the couch with his beer. Funny. He'd never noticed that Sam liked to drink that much before. Now it seemed like he was constantly slugging down something. Randy had to wonder how Sam could come up with all these schemes with so much alcohol in him. Or maybe it wasn't Sam who was thinking them up. Maybe they'd just thought it was.  
  
Just another damn delusion...  
  
He tried to think objectively about what that bastard Clifton had said. His first instinct had been to just get angry and dismiss it all as lies. Clifton would do that. Clifton would try to breach the trust Randy and Sam had. Maybe he'd succeeded. There were so many things that Randy didn't remember clearly about Florida, and those days in California. More like he remembered the feelings, rather than the events. That's why he didn't want to believe Clifton. The feelings he remembered did not coincide with the treachery their prisoner had described. And yet he did remember taking the pills. And Sam insisting that he take them. The question in Randy's mind, the real question, was why?  
  
Sam had looked out for him, when Randy hadn't been thinking clearly, intelligently. He knew that. He knew that it had been Sam that had tried to get them away from Barish. And yet, if Clifton was to be believed, Sam had been working for Barish, right from the start. It made sense, yet it didn't. How else would Sam have known to get them away? Who to get them away from? And yet, why would Sam work for that madman? Why would he do that to Randy, to anyone? The Sam Randy knew wouldn't have had anything to do with that kind of shit. But then, what did Randy really know about Sam?  
  
Shit. That was the problem. Sam wasn't real.  
  
Sam wasn't real...  
  
*****  
  
The sun was at their backs as they moved furiously down the highway. BA was angry and his driving showed it. He swirled between the other vehicles, disregarding the horns around him. Commuter traffic was slowing him down and he didn't like it. Hannibal wanted to get to Minneapolis and find Face. Find him and bring him home.  
  
BA just wanted to find him.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton sat in the dark. Waiting. He didn't worry about the time. Time was relative, after all. If he thought about it, time had stretched on forever. If he didn't think about it, no time had passed at all. So instead he thought about Randy and Sam. He had heard them talking in the other room. At first, quietly. Then Sam's voice, angry, clipped and angry. Then nothing.  
  
He wondered when they would come back in. Which one would come. He knew one of them would. One of them would have questions they could no longer ignore. Doubts they could no longer hide. Answers they had to have.  
  
One of them would come. He smiled.  
  
*****  
  
It was taking forever. Forever. F-O-R-E-V-E-R. He sighed and looked around the new rental van yet again. Nothing had changed. Not really.  
  
Just everything.  
  
He started thinking about what Hannibal had said last night. How angry he'd been with them. It really wasn't fair, though. To compare Face with him. It wasn't the same. Sure, he'd had a hard time back then. He hadn't always known what was real, what was craziness. And yeah, Face had stood by him. But that was different. Murdock couldn't help what his mind told him back then. When you're crazy, you don't have a choice.  
  
Face wasn't crazy.  
  
*****  
  
Randy had finally gone to bed. He'd watched him without watching, seen him fidgeting, glancing over at him, waiting. Finally, he'd stood, stretched, hesitated, and then walked into the empty bedroom and closed the door. Sam had slumped down then, finally relaxing his stiff muscles. He'd been holding himself so tight for so long, it actually hurt to let go. At least he could feel something.  
  
He wondered how much Randy really did remember about those months together. They had reminisced, of course, when they'd first gotten back together. But mainly about their time in Minneapolis. By some unspoken, tacit agreement, they'd skirted away from Florida and California. From that hospital in Colorado. Those were the black times. The time when things had been in free fall. When things had gotten out of control. When things that shouldn't have happened, happened. When people died.  
  
They didn't talk about that.  
  
They had talked about Barish. And the experiment. But only in terms of what Barish had done to them. Not what Sam had done. Sam hadn't brought it up, Randy hadn't thought about it. And Sam had been glad of that. He'd thought about it, now and then. Dismissed it. That hadn't been Sam. That had been the robot that Barish had created. The changed Sam. The Sam that Barish had manipulated. Not the real Sam.  
  
The only problem was how to convince Randy of that. Make Randy believe that, had Sam been himself, he never would have gone along with Barish and the experiment. It had only been when Sam realized that Randy's life was in danger that he'd come back to himself, had gotten Randy out of that mess.  
  
But did Randy realize that? Did Randy realize that the 'real' Sam would never have done that shit to him?  
  
It was Clifton. Clifton that had caused all the problems. Those lies. Trying to bring Face into it. Trying to make Randy believe that Face was the victim, that Sam was some kind of monster, that Face was the one who tried to save Randy, Face who wouldn't have gone along with Barish. Which was crap.  
  
Face wasn't even real.  
  
*****  
  
His leg was aching and he almost had second thoughts about making this trip so soon. Almost. He knew time was of the utmost importance. They had to get to Minneapolis, and figure out the general area where Face might be, and they had to do it before the charge ran out on Clifton's tracking device. At least they had a better idea of where to look, ironically thanks to Stockwell. And that was another very good reason to hurry.  
  
To say Stockwell had been unhappy to discover who the extortionist was, was the understatement of the year. And his reaction to finding out that Face was with him, had been with him all the time Stockwell had been told he was doing 'reconnaissance', was worse. Stockwell had allowed the team to continue in their search, but let them know his own Ables would be conducting their own. And no one had to tell Hannibal that it would be far safer for Face if the team found him first.  
  
It was an indication of Stockwell's frame of mind that he had allowed Carla to bring Hannibal Randy's files. Had he not been under so much stress, and so ballistically angry, he never would have allowed it. Rather, he would have made Hannibal stumble along on guesswork, figuring that his Ables would find the men first. But Stockwell, for the first time possibly in his life, was rattled. The past months of having his empire chiseled away had definitely taken its toll.  
  
Which was yet another reason for the team to find Face before Stockwell. Find Face, find Randy. Find Randy, find Clifton. And then all of this shit would stop. What Stockwell did with Clifton, Hannibal could care less. But Randy had information, and Hannibal would make sure that was used to keep them all safe. And hopefully keep those pardons from flying out the window.  
  
They just had to find them first.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton blinked his eyes as the door to the bedroom opened. He could see the silhouette standing in the light, but couldn't make out which one it belonged to. A moment later the darkness engulfed him once again. The silence was almost absolute, and it wasn't until Clifton held his own breath and heard the soft breathing from the corner that he knew someone else was actually in the room. He still wasn't sure who.  
  
"May I help you?" Overly polite, but with the slightest sneer to his tone. Designed to be innocently irritating.  
  
"You lied."  
  
Ah.  
  
"Now, Sam, why would I lie?"  
  
"Because you're essentially an evil man."  
  
"Evil? Hardly. I do my job. Just as you did."  
  
Clifton heard a shuffling noise. Peck was coming closer, slowly.  
  
"I had no choice."  
  
Clifton let out an exaggerated sigh. "You keep harping on this 'choice' thing. You always had a choice. It was the unfortunate lieutenant who..."  
  
"Bull."  
  
Clifton hesitated in his response. There was something a little too calm about that voice. He tensed slightly as the warning flashed through his mind.  
  
"Does Randy think it's bull?"  
  
Silence. Bulls-eye.  
  
"Apparently Randy is a little more willing to look at the facts. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be so...uptight. Correct?"  
  
"He'll realize what you're trying to do with your lies, in due time. You caught him off guard. You won't do that again."  
  
"You can't hide from the truth forever, Peck. Accept it."  
  
"Oh, I have, Clifton. I know what the truth is, and I know, because of that, what I need to do now. Randy started this to stop the kind of thing Barish was doing, the things Stockwell is doing. Randy wanted to use you to that end, and then let you go. He figured you'd be useless after your credibility was destroyed. But you're too dangerous. Way too dangerous."  
  
His voice had shielded the sound of his movements from Clifton. In an instant, the gag was back in the man's mouth, tape quickly wrapping it in place. Damn.  
  
His eyes widened when he felt the cord around his neck...


	32. Chapter 32

"Anything yet, BA?"  
  
"No. You sure about this?"  
  
"No, but it stands to reason. The log in Randy's file lists every place they stayed, every place they went on a regular basis. They'd go to familiar ground." Hannibal lit his cigar, thinking.  
  
They had arrived in Minneapolis over an hour ago, and headed immediately into the neighborhood surrounding the VA hospital. They hadn't gotten anything from the tracking device in Clifton's tooth, and were now moving toward the halfway house where Randy and Sam had stayed.  
  
"I think we should skip this place, Hannibal. They wouldn't go back here." Murdock was staring up at the ceiling, eyes closed, a deep frown of concentration on his face.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Didn't it say that Randy got beaten up here? No way I'd go near a place where that had happened to me, Colonel."  
  
"Okay, that makes sense. So the overpass, then?" Hannibal waited patiently for Murdock to consider it. If anyone could figure out the rationale of the irrational, it would be Murdock.  
  
"No, too many changes there. There wouldn't be anything left of their stuff. Where else did they live? Or where did they go for fun?"  
  
Hannibal pulled out the envelope yet again and perused the sheets. Thank God Sam had been meticulous in reporting their day to day activities.  
  
"Got it. Loring Park. They went there a lot." He looked up, caught Murdock's concurring grin. "Okay, BA, let's go."  
  
*****  
  
He didn't know what had awakened him, but his instincts snapped his eyes open, and he immediately sat up, reaching for his pistol. Something wasn't right. Sliding silently out of the bed, he crept to the door and eased it open.  
  
A quick glance into the living room told him Sam was gone. His adrenaline level rose and he moved quickly toward the second bedroom. He heard muffled voices inside, and sudden silence. A second later and he was opening the door.  
  
Sam was standing behind Clifton, a rope around the prisoner's neck, pulling. The light from the door caught the grin on his face.  
  
"Sam! What the hell?"  
  
"Stay put, Randy. I'm not going to kill him. Just making sure he doesn't hurt anyone else."  
  
"Sam..."  
  
"You remember, Randy. Cut off the blood supply, the oxygen to the brain. Five minutes. That's all it takes. It won't kill him. Just shut him up. Nothing but gibberish out of that fucking mouth after that. Scrambled eggs for brains." The rope tightened. Clifton's eyes were bulging. "Poetic justice, Randy."  
  
"Sam, let him go! We need him!"  
  
"No, we don't, Randy. He'll just tell us more lies, more distorted shit. It wasn't like that, Randy. It wasn't like what he said. I gave you those pills, yeah. I did a lot of shit for Barish. But that wasn't me. That was the fucking robot Barish made." Sam looked up from his task, pleading. "I got you out of it, Randy. I did, the real Sam. Not Barish's monster."  
  
"I know, Sam. I know that. You wouldn't have gone along with Barish if you hadn't been brainwashed first. I know that. So let him go. Please."  
  
"No. He'll just keep doing what he does, destroying people. Trying to destroy us. He's got to be stopped."  
  
Time was running out for Clifton. Randy could see the rigid posture loosening as he gradually lost consciousness.  
  
"Sam. You have to let him go. We don't do this to people. To anyone. That's what Barish does. What Stockwell does. Not us. Not you."  
  
For a moment, Randy thought Sam was going to let go. The rope slackened just a bit.  
  
"No, Randy, I'm sorry, but I can't. He's got to be stopped." The rope tightened yet again, determination sweeping over Sam's face.  
  
Randy hesitated only a moment before darting across the room, crashing into Sam, knocking him away from Clifton and pulling him down to the floor. The rope around Clifton's neck sliced painfully through skin as it slid away and he desperately tried to suck in air through his nose, choking on the gag.  
  
Randy had expected a momentary struggle from Sam, but the rush of sharp blows that came at him took him completely by surprise. Sam was not merely trying to get away. He was attacking the enemy, his training kicking in with full force. Randy loosened his hold, tried to regroup. Feeling the retreat, Sam's attack became even more vigorous, and Randy was forced to retaliate in kind.  
  
For several minutes, the two men struggled, Randy trying to subdue, Sam trying to disable. Randy felt Sam starting to falter and took advantage. A dirty trick, but he was desperate.  
  
"Stop it now, Face!"  
  
Sam stilled immediately, staring in disbelief and confusion at Randy, who immediately whipped Sam over on his stomach, and pulled his arm painfully tight behind his back, shoving his other arm straight out to the side. Randy sat, catching his breath while still holding Sam down. Sam stayed tense for a moment before suddenly relaxing.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right, Randy. I understand." The defeat was heavy in his voice.  
  
Randy sighed. This was not what he wanted. None of this. It was all going wrong.  
  
"Sam, listen. I'm going to let go. We need to talk, to work things out."  
  
"Sure, Randy." Still the dullness in his voice.  
  
"Sam, we need to leave here. We need to get away from Clifton, from Stockwell. From everybody. I didn't know, Sam. I didn't realize how fucked up they'd made you. It's my fault, Sam. But we'll get things straightened out, okay? We'll go someplace where none of them will ever find us, and we'll get us both straightened out. Are you with me, buddy?"  
  
*****  
  
"Got it, Hannibal."  
  
Hannibal glanced quickly at the little black box on the dash. A bright red light was blinking. As they moved closer to Loring Park, the flashing increased its pace. BA slowed the van, driving carefully through the bric-brac of side streets surrounding the park. Both Murdock and Frankie were leaning forward, watching not only the little red light, but looking for any sign of the car Randy had been driving.  
  
They found themselves driving parallel to the park now, the light flashing manically.  
  
"Pull over, BA. We'll go on foot from here."  
  
BA quickly found a spot to park, and the four men stepped from the van, all looking around at the old buildings gracing the street. Pedestrian traffic was nearly as heavy as that on the streets, the people a mix of conservative worker bees and eccentric artists. Even BA didn't really stand out that much.  
  
Holding the little black box, Hannibal started walking to the north. A few yards and the tracker's flashing started to slow. Quickly they turned and headed back in the opposite direction. Hannibal came to an abrupt halt in front of twin buildings, the solid concrete steps of each joining in a wide veranda. The light was now a steady, solid beacon. Nodding at the others, Hannibal headed into the north building first.  
  
BA and Frankie stood just inside the door, watching the people walking outside. Hannibal and Murdock carefully worked their way through the names on the buzzers, searching for anything that might indicate their quarry's lair.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Quickly, they exited the building and turned into the south door. It took only a moment to find it.  
  
S. Hunt. Apartment B.  
  
With a quick grin at his men, Hannibal headed for the basement entrance.  
  
*****  
  
"Okay."  
  
Sam's eyes were closed, his voice a whisper. Randy slowly loosened his hold and stood. Sam painfully straightened his arm and sat up. He rested his head on his knees, breathing deeply and slowly. Randy knelt beside him.  
  
"Sam, we can work through all of this. I don't for a minute believe that you would have worked willingly for Barish. Not for a second. But this thing with Clifton...you know I couldn't let you do that. And you know you couldn't have lived with it. Things are just...out of control right now. We need to take care of us now. We can deal with Stockwell later, if we still want to. He's going to take a long time to recover from what we've already done. Are you hearing me, Sam?"  
  
"Yeah." Sam didn't raise his head from his knees.  
  
"Okay. C'mon, let's get the hell out of here. Just pack up and leave. I'll call Carla and tell her where Clifton is and..."  
  
"No! We don't let him go." Sam's head jerked up, anger again blazing in his eyes. "He pays."  
  
"Okay, okay. But right now, let's just get packed up and ready to go. Okay? Okay, Sam?"  
  
Sam didn't say anything, just pushed up from the floor. He glared at Clifton as he headed somewhat unsteadily for the bedroom door. Randy followed slowly, relief warring with anticipation. God only knew how long he'd be able to keep Sam moving in the right direction.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal stood to one side of the door, Murdock just behind him. BA and Frankie mirrored them on the other side. All looked grim. Hannibal had warned them all one more time. Face was still part of the team. Any unnecessary roughness and they'd answer to him. Never had he thought he'd have to take that stance with his men, but then, nothing was normal about this whole mess.  
  
He took a long, calming breath, forcing himself to focus. Listening quietly, he heard movement in the apartment, no voices. Once more glancing at the team, he braced himself and nodded to BA.  
  
BA gathered himself together. With one huge surge, he crashed into the door, nearly knocking it from the hinges. A wild scramble ensued as the four men rushed into the small apartment. They fell to the floor as one as bullets suddenly whizzed over their heads. In the sudden silence following, they heard a door in the rear slam against the building and steps racing away.  
  
Jumping to his feet, Hannibal ran toward the back, closely followed by Murdock, BA and Frankie. It took several moments to wind through the dark back hallway, filled with the overflow from the other apartments. By the time they reached the back entrance, there was no sign of either Randy or Sam.  
  
Shuffling defeated back into the apartment, Hannibal heard a thumping from behind a closed door. Opening it cautiously, he reached in and felt for the light switch.  
  
The four men glared at the helpless Clifton, the blood still seeping slowly from the wound around his neck.  
  
*****  
  
Randy hit the gas and tore down the alley, Sam watching behind, gun in hand. Just as they turned the corner and raced down the street, Sam saw Smith step out of the rear entrance. He smiled grimly and turned around to face the front.  
  
"Smith and his boys. Shoulda known."  
  
Randy nodded and kept his eyes on the road. He was balancing between quickly putting as much distance behind them as possible and not gaining notice from the local police.  
  
"So where to now, Randy? Where's our little hideaway going to be this time?" The sarcasm in Sam's voice was barely concealed.  
  
"I have a place in mind, Sam. Nice and quiet. You'll like it."  
  
"Sure, Randy. Whatever you say, Randy."  
  
They drove quickly north, away from the city. Several hours later they pulled into a rustic set of cabins nestled beside a small lake. Randy hurried in and secured a cabin for them, and they parked behind it.  
  
Some twenty minutes later, Sam dozed off on the bed. The pistol rested on his stomach, fingers still closed on the handle.  
  
Randy didn't sleep at all.


	33. Chapter 33

It had been quiet for a long time. Stockwell's organization was slowly rebuilding, some contacts re-established; others, lost forever. Carla's elevated status from her original retrieval of Randy and Sam had been lost in this last debacle. While she remained his assistant, her assignments were once again relegated to simple information retrievals. He kept her on a very short, very tight, leash.  
  
The team had returned to the compound reluctantly. They had stayed in Minneapolis for almost a week, trying to track down any leads, but had come up with nothing. Hannibal agreed to come back only when Stockwell promised not to hunt down Face himself, the General making it clear that this was a concession made only because they had safely returned John Clifton. Clifton had once again disappeared into the bowels of the organization.  
  
The team had only recently started going out on new missions. When they had first returned, Stockwell wanted them on hand for the next assault from Randy and Face. When weeks slipped by without incident, the General began sending them on short and simple jobs, few and far between. They were never away from the compound for more than two or three days. The enforced togetherness with little to relieve the boredom was getting to all of them.  
  
Murdock spent less and less time with the team. He found it easier to find and keep jobs when he wasn't pulled away so often, and with the tension still there between him and Hannibal, the 'real world' was getting more and more inviting. At first, he'd had more than a few maudlin nights, thinking about the way things used to be. The longer things went with no word from or about Face, the less often those nights came.  
  
BA still tinkered with the vehicles around the compound, but also started spending more and more time in Chicago. He still had to be careful, but Stockwell was more agreeable to the trips. It grated on BA when Stockwell implied it had something to do with BA being the most predictable of the bunch. But at least it got him away from the compound. And Hannibal.  
  
Frankie spent his free time shadowing BA, trying to double-date with Murdock, or staying out of Hannibal's way. The resentments he'd felt when they had first come under Stockwell were starting to rebuild, as the other members of the team sank deeper and deeper into their own lives. He had a lot of energy and no place to expend it. Unless, of course, he wanted to help Johnny. And that was a little too much, even for Frankie.  
  
Hannibal had become a man obsessed. He spent hours going over the reports Stockwell had gotten from Barish's organization; he didn't ask how the General had gotten them. He didn't care. He contacted every real estate and property rental agent he could find in Minnesota, starting with the Twin Cities, gradually moving out into the suburbs, then rural Minnesota. He didn't think any farther afield than that. Not yet, anyway. He taught himself to use the computers, so he could mass mail letters of inquiry. Stockwell obliged his mania to some extent by supplying reports from law enforcement agencies around the state. Anything that looked like something the pair might be involved in ended up on Hannibal's desk.  
  
Two months after leaving Minneapolis, Hannibal was no closer to finding his lieutenant. He was losing weight and a full night's sleep was a luxury he seldom enjoyed. The rest of his team was drifting apart, but he didn't seem to notice or care.  
  
Stockwell had noticed the problems, and he didn't like it. A team splintered was a team that was less effective. Despite his promise to leave the search for Face to the Colonel, Stockwell started his own line of inquiry. He had people who still owed him favors, regardless of his recent troubles.  
  
Stockwell could not afford to lose the team. Not now.  
  
*****  
  
He sat on the dock, watching the sailboats float by in the distance. He hadn't caught anything in the four hours he'd been sitting there, but it didn't matter. He had nothing else to do. And today, for some reason, he didn't want to go back into the cabin.  
  
Most days it didn't bother him. It had at first, but he'd gotten used to it. Accepted it. But today he just wanted time off from that. Time to pretend all was right with his world. Maybe it was the time of year. The days were getting shorter, cooler. Soon he wouldn't be able to sit on the dock. Or take leisurely walks in the woods. Soon he would be forced to spend more and more time in the cabin. Moving was no longer an option. He was stuck here until...whenever. The thought of leaving, just walking away from it, never occurred to him.  
  
So he sat on the dock, and pretended to fish, and forgot all about what was in the cabin, and why.  
  
*****  
  
"I want to talk to them. They understand better than anyone what happened. I want to talk to them, and I want them in on the search."  
  
"Impossible, Colonel. They have their own jobs to deal with. They can't be running around the country looking..."  
  
"You're their boss, General. You decide what their jobs are. And you'd better decide their jobs are here, helping me."  
  
"Is that a threat, Smith?"  
  
"I don't make threats, Stockwell. I make promises. And I promise, if they aren't here in the next couple of days, none of the rest of us will be, either."  
  
Stockwell glared at Smith, who returned it calmly. The General was well aware that the team could walk away any time they wanted, regardless of the Ables on site. He also knew if they chose to do that, it would be next to impossible to get them back. The pardons wouldn't matter.  
  
Giving Smith a curt nod, Stockwell stalked out of the house and drove away in his limo. Hannibal watched from the door until the car disappeared around the curve. Sighing, he moved back to his desk and picked up the latest batch of responses from real estate agents. He hadn't been at all sure he would have been able to talk the rest of the team into giving up their pardons and walking out. Not for Face. He was thankful Stockwell still thought he could.  
  
He was discouraged. He wasn't blind to the disintegration of the team. But it wouldn't be the team without Face. He knew that from when they thought Face was dead. It wasn't until they had found out he might still be alive that they had really pulled together again. Become the team they had been before Stockwell. And despite the distrust and anger the others felt toward Face, Hannibal was sure he could bring them back together.  
  
He had to. They were his family. You didn't just let that go.  
  
*****  
  
He finally gave up. The sun was high now, and too hot to stay on the dock. He dumped the bucket of worms into the water, and watched wryly as the evasive fish swarmed to capture the feast. Figured.  
  
Picking up his fishing pole and empty fish bucket, he turned and looked toward the cabin. Sighing, he walked slowly up the dirt path and up onto the porch. Placing the fishing gear carefully next to the door, he pushed it slowly open and stepped in.  
  
Stepping carefully, he started to pick up the empties scattered on the floor. He did it mechanically, tossing them in the large garbage can sitting beside the kitchen door as he gathered them. He hesitated when he came close to the couch, not sure what his reception would be. Not to worry. Not quite one o'clock and he was already passed out. Randy sighed. Hooking the unconscious man's arm over his shoulder, Randy dragged him up and into the bedroom. He let him drop roughly on the bed, slinging his legs up so he wouldn't slide onto the floor. As an afterthought, he threw a light blanket over him and left, closing the door behind him.  
  
Randy spent the rest of the afternoon straightening and cleaning the cabin. He did the same thing every afternoon, getting the place cleaned up before Sam woke up and started drinking again. For those few hours, the place almost looked like home.  
  
As he dropped the last empty can into the garbage, he considered once more cutting off Sam's supply of booze. He didn't dare, though. As long as Sam was drunk, Randy didn't have to listen to wild schemes for getting to Stockwell, or worry about him sneaking out to put those schemes into action. As long as Sam stayed drunk, Randy didn't have to listen to the angry accusations of treachery.  
  
As long as Sam was drunk, Randy didn't have to watch his back.


	34. Chapter 34

He kept his eyes closed. He knew the minute he opened them, the room would spin out of control. He knew that because his head was still buzzing. Slowly, carefully, he turned onto his side, moving his head just as slowly until he felt the cool softness of the pillow on his cheek. There. Better. A few more minutes and the buzzing would go away and he could open his eyes.  
  
He wondered, idly, if he had gotten on the bed on his own, or if Randy had done it. Probably Randy. The last thing he remembered was trying to get up off the couch, falling back down, and wishing angrily that Randy was there. Which he wasn't. He never was, anymore. Never there when Sam needed him. Not for a long time. Always showed up after it was too late. Or when he wasn't wanted. One day he wouldn't show up at all. Sam was surprised it hadn't happened already.  
  
He couldn't figure out Randy any more. He thought he'd known everything that was worth knowing about him, but obviously he had been wrong. It had been a shock to see him helping Smith, but he could explain that away. Maybe he shouldn't have, in retrospect.  
  
But Clifton. That was different. Totally different. Clifton had tried to turn Randy against Sam, tried to make Sam question himself. Hell, Clifton had done everything he could to kill them, all those months ago. And yet Randy had stopped Sam from destroying that evil.  
  
How ironic that Clifton had managed to destroy that which Sam held most dear, had used Sam himself to do it, and hadn't even tried. Sam knew he'd made a mistake. He should have killed the bastard outright. But then, that wasn't the only mistake he had made.  
  
He sighed. Pulled the light blanket closer around him. It was hot in the room, but he felt cold. He always felt cold any more. Damn. He opened his eyes and met the glare of the late afternoon sun fully in the face. Shit! Why did he never remember to close those damn blinds?  
  
Stifling a groan, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, sliding his legs over the side of the bed, hung his head to squelch the dizziness before trying to move any further. He really needed to quit drinking. Really. It was just so much easier this way. Not having to deal with Randy. Randy just went away, just like Smith, just like Baracus, just like Murdock and all the rest. The more he drank, the further they went. And he wanted them all far, far away.  
  
So why wouldn't Randy go away? Go away, and stay away...  
  
*****  
  
He heard the bed creaking and unconsciously tensed. Took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Just relax. Take it as it comes. Maybe today would be the day. He'd 'slept' longer than usual. Days like that, he sobered up a little more. Sometimes that was good, sometimes not so good. Randy kept hoping that one time he would decide not to open that first bottle. Decide to pull himself together again. But Randy also knew that wasn't likely to happen.  
  
Not until he decided which 'himself' he was going to pull together.  
  
Silence from the bedroom. Had he fallen back asleep? Randy was tempted to check, but knew from experience not to. The last time he'd opened that door Sam had taken a shot at him. Granted, he hadn't been totally awake, and was still in a drunken haze, and yet...the shot had come way too close anyway. And there had been no apology afterwards. Sam had merely told him he should have known better. And he should have, actually.  
  
He'd hidden all the guns the next day, after Sam had gotten sufficiently inebriated not to notice Randy's actions. He either hadn't noted the absence of the weapons, or no longer cared. After all, Sam didn't need a gun.  
  
Randy moved quietly into the kitchen, started fixing some soup. Hopefully, he'd get Sam to eat something today. Some days he would, others he wouldn't. When he did, he ate ravenously. When he didn't, he was more easily riled.  
  
Randy heard the bed creak once more, knew now that Sam was getting ready to make an appearance, and realized how much he was dreading it. This was no way to live. For either of them. But Randy had no idea what to do about it. He could, of course, cut off the booze, force Sam to dry out. Try to keep him dried out. But that wouldn't solve the big problem. And Randy had no idea how to handle that.  
  
The soup was just about ready when the bedroom door opened.  
  
*****  
  
Sam stood in the doorway, smelling the soup, watching Randy stirring it slowly. He was hungry, but he knew he wouldn't eat any of that. He didn't eat anything if he hadn't watched Randy fix it start to finish.  
  
Instead, he moved unsteadily into the kitchen, ignoring the hesitant greeting from his former friend. He reached inside the fridge, grabbed a six pack and made his way back to the couch. He didn't really feel like a beer right now, but he needed something in his stomach. He noted the frown on Randy's face as he popped the top off the bottle. Tough.  
  
Randy turned off the fire under the soup, glanced over at Sam, and poured two bowls. Without saying a word, he brought one over and set it on the coffee table. He retreated to the kitchen, taking up his own bowl, leaning against the counter, watching.  
  
Always watching now. At first, he'd tried talking. Trying to 'explain'. Like he could talk his way out of the betrayal. Make it seem like he had done all those things for Sam's own good. Sam knew better. Now. After the first couple of days, he'd thought maybe Randy was sincere. The way he'd kept talking about their promise to each other not to hurt anyone. Reminding him that they had always watched out for each other. Of course, he'd ignored the fact that circumstances had changed. But he made it all seem so reasonable, Sam had started to believe him.  
  
But then Sam had started planning. Wanted to get back on track, go after Stockwell. But everything he mentioned, Randy negated. He wanted to take a break. Said they needed to rest up before going back into that again. Sam didn't like that; not one bit. So he'd decided to head back to civilization, alone.  
  
He'd known better than to be obvious about leaving. He wasn't willing to give Randy that much. So he'd waited until Randy was asleep, and sneaked out. Had been almost to the main road when Randy caught up with him.  
  
That's when he really knew where Randy's allegiance was. Randy first had tried to talk him out of leaving, but when Sam insisted, had turned his back and started walking, Randy tackled him. He hadn't been expecting that. Otherwise, Randy never would have taken him down.  
  
They'd ended up back at the cabin, both bloody and exhausted. Sam had angrily grabbed a beer. Then another. And another. At first, it was just to get away from Randy's voice, his 'reasoning', his lies. But then he discovered that alcohol actually allowed him to think more clearly, without the garbage of his and Randy's 'history' dragging him down.  
  
And it made him realize what he hadn't seen before. Made him think about that history. The Randy he had known, had befriended. Realized that the Randy he had known was Barish's creation. Not a real person.  
  
That had shaken him. Badly. Made him think back to Smith. That whole mirage. The confusion he'd felt the first few weeks with them. The loss he'd felt when he'd realized the truth. That the people he had been told were like family to him, were, in reality, complete strangers. The betrayal he'd felt. And he'd flown to Randy. The person he knew. He knew!  
  
He'd thought about the time they'd spent in Minneapolis, their reunion. The completeness he'd felt. He had his life back. And then to realize, to understand in all certainty, that it, too, was just a lie. Barish's lie. That's what he'd thought.  
  
But then he had realized something else.  
  
Stockwell had given Randy back his 'memories', too.  
  
*****  
  
"I'm glad you're here. Very glad."  
  
"Nothing would have stopped us from coming, Colonel. They're both good men. We want them brought in, safe, unharmed."  
  
"Stockwell?"  
  
"Not happy, but who cares? He knows, no matter how many Ables or agencies he uses, you're still the best bet of getting them back. He may put up a fight, but he'll do what you want."  
  
Hannibal smiled, absently. He knew Stockwell was a pragmatist. He'd counted on it. "You've been briefed?"  
  
"Yeah. Your other men are not in on this?"  
  
"They will be if I tell them to, but I'm not sure it's wise right now. Feelings are..."  
  
"Understood. Well, Kurt did some checking around before we came out. Don't ask me how he does it, but he can make these databases sing to him. Came up with a couple possible locations."  
  
Hannibal looked at Kurt, grinning widely. "I knew there was a reason I wanted you guys on this."  
  
"Well, don't get too optimistic. A couple of these are pretty thin. But there is one that piqued my interest. It's a small acreage on one of the smaller lakes in northern Minnesota. Boundary Waters area. Belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Max Lindstedt. They passed away several years ago, place has been empty since. But the owner has paid the taxes every year on time - except last year. The taxes were on the delinquent list, were just paid up in full a couple months ago."  
  
"About the time Randy and Face disappeared."  
  
"Right. That's what caught my attention. Did some further checking. Apparently the property was left to the Lindstedt's grandson, their only living relative. They raised him after his parents were killed in a car accident."  
  
"Randy?"  
  
"Maybe. The grandson's name was Gerald R. Lindstedt. He disappeared shortly after the grandparents died." Kurt looked at Hannibal and Daryl. "I thought we might take a run up that way, do a little fishing."


	35. Chapter 35

The old man eyed the boy from behind the counter. He'd known him practically since the day he was born; him, and his brothers, too. Always been a good kid, polite and respectful.  
  
"You doin okay, boy?"  
  
"Yeah, sure, Pops." A hint of surprise in his reply.  
  
"Mmm. Ain't in any kinda trouble, are you?"  
  
"Trouble? No...why?"  
  
"A couple men in here this mornin, askin about the place. Said they heard it was for sale, which is bullshit, o'course. Wanted to know who the owner was, where they could get in touch with him."  
  
"Well, that's happened before, right? What did you tell them?"  
  
"That the owner hadn't been around for years, and I hadn't heard it was for sale. Just vacant. They acted disappointed, then let it go. But I figured I'd let you know." The old man looked at him again, sternly. "You sure you ain't in trouble? 'Cause you ain't been up this way for a long time. Now you show up, and then these fellas."  
  
"Don't worry, Pops. No big deal."  
  
"Mmm. Or maybe it's that friend of yours. The one that drinks. Didn't like the looks of him from the start."  
  
"Pops..."  
  
"Okay, okay, none of my business, I know." He paused, added, "Remember how you was always bringin home stray animals? Drove your poor old mama right up the wall..."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Remember that Husky you found out in the woods?"  
  
"Kinda..."  
  
"Kinda, hell. Can't forget gettin mauled, can you? Damn thing turned on you so fast...lucky you weren't killed." The old man shook his head. "You was always draggin' in strays, always regrettin it."  
  
"Your point, Pops?"  
  
"You know this guy pretty good, do you? Or just feel sorry for him?"  
  
"He's a friend, Pops. He helped me out. Now it's my turn."  
  
"Okay, boy. Long as you know what you're doin."  
  
Randy picked up the bag of groceries and walked out the door, hurrying his step. He'd left Sam alone too long.  
  
*****  
  
"Can we get a little closer? I can see the cabin but nothing detailed."  
  
"Yeah, we'll move in, but slowly. Make it look like we're just drifting along. We don't want to spook them."  
  
"Think the old man will say anything?"  
  
"Won't matter if he does. We didn't ask about Lindstedt in particular, just wondering about the property. Hell, maybe it isn't even them."  
  
"Well, somebody's at that cabin, so we know the old guy lied to us about that."  
  
The three men sat silently then, trying to look like they were really fishing. They were almost halfway across the lake, but had a clear, if distant, view of the cabin. They'd seen smoke coming from the chimney, otherwise no movement of any kind. The boat, with surreptitious help from Daryl's oar, slipped slowly closer to the shore.  
  
"Heads up. Dust cloud coming."  
  
The men watched as dust rose up from the tree line, heading for the cabin. A few minutes later they saw a battered old Jeep pull up close to the house. A man got out, carrying a bag. They were close enough to see his movements, but couldn't make out any of his features. He seemed to wait for some time, standing just outside the door, before finally going in.  
  
"Think he saw us?"  
  
"I don't think so. I don't think he looked this way at all."  
  
"Okay. I think we should head back. We aren't going to get any closer this way without giving ourselves away."  
  
Kurt and Daryl picked up the oars and casually headed the boat for the opposite shore. They didn't start the motor until the cabin was just a blob on the far shore.  
  
Hannibal's eyes never left it.  
  
*****  
  
Randy hesitated for a moment before entering the cabin. He no longer worried about Sam sneaking away while he was gone. Sam wouldn't leave the cabin for anything. Almost as if he were afraid to leave. Randy had tried on several occasions, thinking some fresh air, a walk around the property, just sitting on the dock, might sober him up a little. But Sam would get that look on his face, full of suspicion and distrust, and not budge.  
  
When he'd left, Sam had been sitting on the couch, bottle in hand, murmuring to himself. That was something new. Up until two days ago, he would sit and drink, never saying anything unless Randy practically forced him. Now, he was still staring off into space, but was mumbling constantly. Randy couldn't make out what he was saying. There seemed to be a rhythm to it, almost as if he were reciting something. He would stop when staggering out to the kitchen for more booze, start up again once he'd made it back to the couch. If Randy got close, or asked what he was saying, Sam would just glare at him. He wouldn't say a word until Randy moved away, and then the mumbling would start again.  
  
Sighing, Randy stepped into the cabin, looking quickly around to find Sam. He liked to know exactly where he was. As usual, Sam was propped against the back of the couch. Something was different, though.  
  
No bottle in his hand.  
  
"Sam?" Randy spoke quietly, cautiously.  
  
"My father was an accountant." Monotone, but clear. No slurring.  
  
"What?"  
  
"My father was an accountant. My mother was a secretary. Until they got me. Then she quit and stayed home and was my mother."  
  
"Okaaay..."  
  
Sam was silent. He stared toward Randy for a moment, rheumy eyes not quite focused. Then he turned away, picked up a bottle from the floor, took a deep drink, and resumed his soft intonations.  
  
Randy watched him for a moment, stricken. He stepped into the kitchen, set the bag of groceries on the counter, and stood, dazed. That was it. He'd brought Sam here to keep them safe, to make sure no one would find them, so nothing more would happen to push Sam further into violence. To help Sam deal with reality. But he hadn't been prepared for the extent of Sam's anger toward him. Had been so caught off guard that he'd actually welcomed the drinking, telling himself Sam would pull out of it, that he just had to escape for a while. That it would let them both escape for a while.  
  
Now he knew better.  
  
Quietly, not wanting to alert Sam, he opened the refrigerator and, one by one, pulled out the bottles. He stepped out of the kitchen door with his load and methodically opened them, emptying the contents on the ground. When he had finished with them, he dumped the empties into the garbage. He went back inside, checking to make sure Sam hadn't moved, and then pulled all the bottles from the cupboard. He ransacked the kitchen, making sure he had everything, and stepped outside once more.  
  
When he was finished, he moved around the corner of the cabin to the Jeep. Quickly, he removed the distributor cap and hid it in the rafters of the porch.  
  
He returned to the cabin, into the living room, sat in the chair opposite Sam, and waited.  
  
*****  
  
They drove around the little town on their way to the cabin, not wanting to catch the attention of the old man at the store. Fifteen minutes later they found the entrance to the driveway, if one could call it that. Thick bushes obscured the gravel trail, and the gravel itself precluded any tire tracks. Anyone else looking at it would assume it hadn't been used in years. Only close inspection showed the men where branches had been carefully cut back, allowing just enough room for a vehicle to push through. Kurt maneuvered their own vehicle into a cutback a few yards past the drive, and the men headed down the overgrown trail.  
  
They tramped down a steep hill, which made a slow, stealthy walk difficult. They could see the leaves on the upper branches had started changing color, but the branches directly overhead still formed a dark green tunnel. They finally reached the bottom of the hill, the chill in the air maintained by the woods. They rounded a wide curve and abruptly backed into the trees.  
  
The cabin lay directly in front of them, not more than a hundred feet away. The ground around it was clear, the lake lapping gently against the shore perhaps another hundred feet further.  
  
"Wow. I can see why he'd hang on to this place. It's beautiful." Daryl's head turned slowly as he viewed the clearing.  
  
"Perfect place for recuperating. Quiet, secluded. Friendlies surrounding them. Perfect." Kurt followed Daryl's gaze.  
  
Hannibal was less enthralled. "Uh, guys, did you notice the trip wires coming down here?"  
  
Both heads swiveled suddenly toward him, consternation on their faces.  
  
"Trip wires? Where?"  
  
"Exactly." Hannibal frowned, looking closely at the cabin. "There weren't any. Nothing the entire way down here to stop anyone from coming in unseen. Does that make sense? If it's really Randy and Face that are hiding out here?"  
  
"What, you don't think it's them?"  
  
"Either it's not them, and we've wasted our time up here, or we've missed something, and that could spell disaster. I don't like either possibility."  
  
The three men turned to stare at the cabin, silent. They all wondered if Randy and Face were even now watching them from the curtained windows, waiting.  
  
"Maybe it's just squatters."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"So what do you want to do, Colonel?"  
  
There was another long silence, Kurt and Daryl waiting somewhat impatiently for the Colonel to make his decision.  
  
"Well, they either know we're coming or don't care." He grinned at the other two men. "Why don't you wait here, Daryl, and Kurt, you 'mosey' over to the other side there?"  
  
"And what are you going to do, Colonel Smith?" Kurt smiled wickedly at Daryl, who's own eyes glittered as the Colonel's grin infected them both.  
  
"Me? I'm going to go knock on the door and meet the new neighbors."


	36. Chapter 36

"Where's Hannibal?"  
  
"He's gone, man."  
  
"Whadda ya mean, Frankie?"  
  
"I mean he flew the coop, BA. Stockwell called and Hannibal packed a bag and left in Stockwell's limo. Didn't say a word about where he was going, or how long he'd be gone, or nothing, man. Just vamoosed."  
  
BA glared at Frankie. He'd just spent a long and uncomfortable ride on the train from Chicago, and squirmed in a taxi from the station to the compound, cringing at almost every move the cabbie had made. Then to find out Hannibal had taken off without any of the team with him...he didn't like it, not one bit.  
  
"Murdock know about this?"  
  
"No, I haven't seen or heard from him in days, BA." Frankie frowned. "I tried calling him, but he hasn't returned my calls. That's not right. What if we'd had a mission?"  
  
BA shook his head. "If we'd'a had a mission, Hannibal woulda called him. He's probably just busy."  
  
"Yeah, everybody's 'just busy'." Frankie shook his head, disgusted.  
  
"What's that s'posed to mean?"  
  
"It's just that everybody's doing their own thing now, BA. Murdock has a new job, and hardly ever comes out here any more. You go off to Chicago all the time, by yourself. Hannibal...well, you know what he's been doing. I thought you guys were supposed to be a team, man. Now you hardly even talk to each other. Hell, you hardly see each other. It's almost like there's no team left."  
  
BA looked hard at Frankie. He started to tell him he was full of it, but couldn't. What Frankie said was true. Even living in the same house, BA steered clear of Hannibal. Murdock came out only when he had to, hardly ever called any more. The team rarely saw each other except for jobs, and those were few and far between. Even Stockwell seemed to have lost confidence in them. That wasn't right.  
  
And now Hannibal had taken off without a word to anyone. Only one reason for that to happen.  
  
BA glared at Frankie. "You call Murdock and tell him I said to get his butt out here."  
  
"What are you going to do, BA?"  
  
"I'm gonna have a little talk with the General, that's what."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal hoped he looked more confident than he felt as he stepped up on the porch. He kept feeling that bullet hitting his leg. He fervently hoped Randy was the one in control now. Hannibal always knew he would die fighting; he just didn't like the idea of Face being the one to put him down. At all.  
  
He didn't have a chance to knock on the door. It swung open, silently, as he stepped up to it. He forced himself not to look for Kurt or Daryl; they were pro's. They were watching. He knew he wasn't in any immediate danger now; Randy was willing to talk or he'd have put a bullet in Hannibal before he'd gotten on the porch. Putting a smile on his face, he stepped through the door.  
  
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the cabin. He was surprised to note the curtains were drawn, even in this secluded place. The next thing he noted was the smell. A strange, unpleasant mix of disinfectant and beer, soap and body odor. Involuntarily he frowned in disgust.  
  
The door swung silently closed behind him. Startled, he turned and faced a Beretta, held by Randy. The voice spoke calmly, softly.  
  
"Welcome to our little neck of the woods, Colonel."  
  
*****  
  
"I don't know where he's gone, Sergeant. If I did, my men would be right there with him."  
  
"Yeah, right." BA looked at Stockwell with contempt. "You called him, you sent your car for him, but you don't know where he went."  
  
"True, Sergeant. But those were his conditions - that he work on his own. Well, almost on his own."  
  
"Who's with him?"  
  
"A couple of old friends of yours. Ables 9 and 12 - Kurt and Daryl, I believe you knew them as."  
  
"So he has gone after Face, then." Murdock spoke for the first time, not looking at Stockwell, but continuing to gaze out the window.  
  
"Yes, Captain. Which is why I agreed to let him go under these conditions."  
  
"He would have gone anyway, General, and you know it."  
  
Stockwell didn't bother to reply.  
  
"So now what, General?"  
  
"So now you wait. One way or another, Smith will be returning with the lieutenant, and we will go from there."  
  
"One way or the other? That don't sound too good, Stockwell." Frankie stood up from the couch, moved over toward BA.  
  
"That would be up to the lieutenant, Mr. Santana. I only know what your Colonel told me. He would not come back unless and until he has Peck with him. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have things to attend to."  
  
The three men watched, silent, until Stockwell's limo had driven away. Frankie and BA instinctively looked over at Murdock. He smiled at them. A mean smile.  
  
"Murdock?" Frankie was clearly puzzled.  
  
"No time to talk, Frankie. We have to find Hannibal's message."  
  
"Message? What message?"  
  
Murdock looked patiently at Frankie. BA just scowled and headed for Hannibal's room.  
  
"Hannibal wouldn't tell Stockwell, but he would've left something for us."  
  
"Why? He's got those other two guys."  
  
"Yeah, but they're not his team."  
  
*****  
  
Randy stood for just a moment longer, gun pointed at the Colonel, before sighing and putting it away. Nodding toward the living room, he stepped away from the door, stood slightly behind Smith. Waited.  
  
Smith moved into the living room, seeing immediately the figure sitting on the couch. Randy watched his reactions carefully. He only knew the Colonel as an adversary, as someone who had, intentionally or not, put his best friend through hell. Now he wanted to see what kind of man the Colonel really was.  
  
Smith had stopped, staring at Sam. Randy moved quietly so he could see his face. Pale. Deep frown. Anger? No, that didn't seem right. Something else.  
  
The Colonel started forward again, slowly, as one would approach an unknown animal. Sam didn't appear to notice, just sat, holding the beer bottle, mumbling. No, he had noticed. The mumbling had sped up, just a bit. A hint of anxiety in it. Randy moved closer.  
  
Smith sat slowly on the end of the couch. The mumbling stopped for a split second, then continued. A little louder. Smith just sat, watching, not saying a word. The mutterings quieted, became a mere whisper.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
Randy was surprised. The voice was very quiet, understandably, but that Smith hadn't called him 'Face'...maybe the Colonel was smarter than Randy had thought.  
  
Sam stopped his recitation again but kept looking straight ahead. Took a drink. Stared ahead, frowning.  
  
"Sam, do you know who I am?"  
  
No response.  
  
Smith slowly moved his hand over to Sam's chin, pulling gently to make him look at him. Again, Randy was surprised. Sam hadn't liked anyone close to him for a long time, let alone touching him. Sam looked right into Smith's eyes. Something flickered over his face. He jerked his head away, closed his eyes tightly, and his mantra became loud and clear to the other men.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal watched Randy's eyes as he held the gun on him. Suspicion, certainly, wariness. But something else. A question. He sighed inwardly when Randy put the gun away and nodded toward the other room. Hannibal turned, stepped into what appeared to be the living room.  
  
He wasn't prepared for what he saw. Not at all. Certainly he'd figured Face would be in there, waiting. Probably holding another gun on him. But what he saw took his breath away.  
  
Face sat on the couch, head slightly bowed, as if addressing the beer bottle in his hands. His hair was long, very long, and filthy. His clothes were rumpled and...damn, that's where the smell was coming from. Hannibal wondered how long it had been since the man had even looked at a shower. From what he could see, he had a full beard now, too. Just as filthy as the rest of him.  
  
But that wasn't what chilled him to the bone. It was the mutterings coming from him. Voice soft, but hoarse, as if he'd been shouting for hours. He just sat there, staring at the bottle, talking to himself. Constantly talking.  
  
Hannibal stepped forward, slowly, not wanting to spook him. Something told him that wouldn't be hard to do. At first, he didn't think Face had noticed, but then he realized that he was talking just a bit faster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Randy moving in, protectively. Slowly, to reassure both men, he sat on the couch, at what he thought Face would consider a comfortable distance from him. The voice faltered, then continued. Hannibal kept quiet, not moving. The voice softened to a whisper.  
  
Figuring Face had calmed enough, Hannibal decided he had to try for some kind of contact. Thought for a moment before speaking. Obviously, he had to be very careful now.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
The muttering stopped. Face took a deep drink from the bottle, frowned.  
  
"Sam, do you know who I am?"  
  
No response.  
  
Hannibal steadied himself. Slowly he reached over, took the bearded chin in his hand and gently turned Face to look at him. He looked closely, trying to see anything of the man he'd known. Instead, he saw bloodshot, unfocused eyes, with nothing in them at all. But then there was something. A quick flash. Recognition?  
  
Suddenly Face jerked his head away, closed his eyes tightly, and started muttering again, loud and clearly this time.  
  
"My father was an accountant. My mother was a secretary. Until they got me. Then she quit and stayed home and was my mother. My father was an accountant..."


	37. Chapter 37

"Uh, guys, I don't know but maybe this is something..." Frankie held up a small cell phone. "There's a message, but it doesn't make any sense. It's just a bunch of numbers." He grabbed a pen and pad, replayed the message, writing down the numbers. "474206, then 915624."  
  
BA grabbed the phone while Murdock studied the paper. "This ain't Hannibal's phone. It's Face's."  
  
"Okay, so obviously he's telling us this has to do with Face. But where is he?"  
  
"Exactly where Hannibal told us. It's all in the numbers, Frankie, my boy." Murdock was grinning wildly. "Latitude, longitude. We can drop right in on them."  
  
BA scowled. "Whadda'ya mean, 'drop right in on them', fool?"  
  
"Just an expression, BA. Just an expression..."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal stood up, carefully, watching his lieutenant. He shook his head and turned, glancing at Randy before heading toward the door.  
  
"Where you going?"  
  
"I've got two men waiting outside. I don't know if you remember them or not. Kurt and Daryl. From before."  
  
"Yeah, I remember. Whose side are they on?" Suspicion, caution, hope.  
  
"Sam's, I guess. And yours, as far as not wanting you to get hurt." He took hold of the door handle. "You okay with that?"  
  
"Yeah, sure. Not that I could keep them out for long, anyway."  
  
Hannibal stepped outside without another word, signaling to the two men. They trotted up, questions on their faces. Quickly, Hannibal described what had happened inside.  
  
"I don't know how he'll react. He might not even recognize you. Randy's not all that sure about you, either. Frankly, I think he's desperate."  
  
"Well, let's see what we can do, Colonel." Daryl stepped forward, almost eagerly, leaving Hannibal and Kurt standing. Hannibal looked at the other man, questioning.  
  
"Oh, uh, Daryl started out in the medical field. Hit some hard times and ended up with Stockwell. But he's never completely gotten away from it."  
  
"Medical field?"  
  
"Research." Kurt gave him a warning look. "You don't have to worry about anything, okay? My word on it."  
  
Hannibal looked at him coolly. "I wasn't worried, Kurt. You've both proven yourselves to me, or I wouldn't have asked for your help."  
  
Kurt nodded, and followed after Daryl, Hannibal right behind him.  
  
*****  
  
"He's gonna be mad, Murdock."  
  
"I know, Frankie."  
  
"He's gonna be really mad."  
  
"He always is, Frankie."  
  
"So, who's he gonna hit first, Murdock?"  
  
"I know how to duck, Frankie."  
  
"Great..."  
  
*****  
  
Daryl smiled at Randy, extending his hand. Randy hesitated a moment before taking it.  
  
"Good to see you again, Randy. I wish circumstances were different."  
  
"Yeah, me, too, Daryl. I'm glad it was you two, though."  
  
Daryl looked into the living room, watched Sam for a few minutes. "He's been drinking a lot?"  
  
"Continually. Plus he won't eat. Before it was sporadic, but the last few days, nothing. I screwed it up, bad."  
  
"We don't have to go there, Randy. You did what you thought best at the time. How much alcohol is here now?"  
  
"None." Daryl looked at him, surprised. "Some things happened. I decided it was time he went on the wagon. When he's done with that bottle, that's it."  
  
"Hmm. Well, we've got our work cut out for us, then." Daryl turned to Kurt, who had stepped up behind him in time to catch the conversation. "You and I better talk to him alone first, Kurt."  
  
"You're the expert."  
  
Randy and Hannibal instinctively moved back, heading into the kitchen. They wouldn't create a distraction, but would be close at hand. Just in case.  
  
*****  
  
He shouldn't be here. Why was he here? Who brought him? Randy? Why would Randy bring him? Why? Why?  
  
Randy didn't believe in him any more. He knew that. He'd realized that a long time ago. Shit. Shit. He was losing himself again. Like before. Had to remember. Had to remember who he was, where he came from. Don't lose it again. Never. Never. Don't give in to them.  
  
Don't let them steal me again.  
  
My father was an accountant. Remember that. Remember that. My mother was...a secretary. Keep remembering. Keep it. Keep her. My mother was a secretary. Remember.  
  
My father...my father...my father was an accountant...  
  
*****  
  
Daryl sat down on the couch, closer to Sam than Hannibal had but still giving him his space. Kurt sat in the chair Randy had vacated earlier. They watched and listened for a few minutes, but it was hard. Kurt couldn't believe this was the same man they'd known. It scared him. And he didn't like that.  
  
"Sam?" Daryl spoke in a normal voice, calmly but unhesitant. "Hey, Sam? How you doing, buddy?"  
  
Sam stopped talking. Sat very still.  
  
"Can't even say hello to old friends, Sam?"  
  
Sam looked over at him, suspicious. "You know me?"  
  
"Sure, I know you. Hell, how could I forget the guy I ran over?"  
  
Sam looked closer, squinting his eyes, frowning.  
  
"Daryl?"  
  
"Yeah, who else? And Kurt's over there."  
  
Sam's head swiveled slowly toward Kurt. Sam stared. Looked back at Daryl.  
  
"Who am I?"  
  
"Who are you? Well, Sam, of course."  
  
Sam's body relaxed, only slightly. He looked down at the bottle in his hands, looked inside, dropped it on the floor.  
  
"I need a drink."  
  
"Oh, sorry, Sam. I think we're out."  
  
Sam looked up quickly, anger rushing over his face. He stood, staggering as he straightened, glaring. He took a step toward the kitchen. "Randy! Randy!!"  
  
"Hey, it's okay, Sam." Daryl stood, keeping his voice calm. He'd been taken by surprise by the sudden outburst, had to diffuse things. "Don't worry, Sam. Hey, you and me and Kurt, we'll make a beer run. No problem. Okay?"  
  
Sam, still angry, looked at him. "I can't."  
  
"Can't? Why not?"  
  
"I...can't." Sam suddenly sank back onto the couch. "I can't leave here."  
  
Daryl sat down again. "Why, Sam?"  
  
"Stockwell. Stockwell's out...there..." Sam was starting to sweat. He looked at the floor. Closed his eyes. "My father..."  
  
"Your father was a very good man, Sam. An excellent accountant."  
  
Sudden stillness.  
  
"You knew my father?"  
  
"Not personally, but I knew his reputation."  
  
Sam digested this. "My mother?"  
  
"I met her. You had two wonderful parents, Sam. You were very lucky."  
  
Sam smiled, still keeping his eyes closed. "Yes. Yes, I had two wonderful parents."  
  
"You look tired, Sam. You must be awfully tired, after all this time..."  
  
Sam didn't say anything, just nodded his head, still smiling.  
  
"Why don't you go in and lay down for a while, Sam? Rest for a while...get a good night's sleep..." Daryl kept his voice calm, quiet, monotone. "Bed would feel good now, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
Daryl stood, nodding to Kurt. The two of them gently helped Sam stand up and then maneuvered him into the bedroom. He had a hard time walking, and made no protest when his two friends held his arms, supporting him.  
  
A few minutes later, Daryl and Kurt joined the other two men in the kitchen. Daryl exhaled, deeply.  
  
"Damn, I wish I had one of those beers, Randy."  
  
*****  
  
"Just let me handle it, BA. Face and I used this scam so many times I could do it in my sleep."  
  
"You better not mess up, sucka. We ain't got a lot of time."  
  
Murdock gave BA an exasperated look before heading toward the small grocery store. Frankie stepped smartly behind. Both were dressed in drab business suits. Just before entering, Murdock reminded Frankie to be quiet and semi-menacing.  
  
"Remember, the guy can't have any doubt we're serious and on the level. Got the sketches?"  
  
"Yeah, right here, Murdock. I told you staying in touch with that Diane would be handy, huh?"  
  
"Sure, Frankie. I'm just not sure Stockwell would appreciate you staying in touch with a woman who illustrates erotic magazines for a living."  
  
"Stockwell won't find out...will he?"  
  
"Never mind, Frankie. It's show time."  
  
The two men stepped determinedly into the store and up to the counter. The old man behind it eyed them suspiciously.  
  
"Morning, sir. Special Agent Rupert, this is my partner, Agent Santiago. We're looking for some men who might have come up this way. Show him the sketches, Raoul."  
  
Frankie solemnly pulled the drawings of Kurt and Daryl from his pocket and placed them on the counter. The old man looked disdainfully at them, then did a double-take. Looked up at Murdock, trying to hide his surprise.  
  
"What'cha lookin for them for?"  
  
"These are what are commonly referred to as 'hit men', sir. We have reason to believe they're after another man who may have come this way." Murdock nodded at Frankie, who pulled another drawing, this one looking very vaguely like Face.  
  
"I knew it. I knew that guy was trouble."  
  
"So you have seen these men?" Murdock tried to keep his excitement professional.  
  
"Oh, yeah, all three of 'em. These two, they were here just yesterday. Said they were lookin for a guy owns a cabin out on the lake. I knew better." He looked at the drawings again. "They're dangerous, eh?"  
  
"Very. Can you tell me how to get to this cabin, sir?"  
  
"Oh, you betcha. You get those bastards."  
  
Murdock smiled grimly. "We'll do our best, sir."


	38. Chapter 38

Kurt sat on the porch, a hot cup of coffee warming his hands. It was chilly this morning, an early warning of what was soon coming. He'd never spent much time in this part of the country, but its reputation for cold weather was enough for him to know he didn't want to be here much longer.  
  
He could hear an occasional rattle of dishes and murmur of voices through the open windows, the Colonel and Randy cleaning up from breakfast. It had been damn cold last night with the windows open, but the Colonel had insisted. And he let them all know that today, those who weren't dealing directly with Sam would be dealing with cleanup. Well, Kurt couldn't blame him. Although it was obvious Randy had tried to keep it somewhat sanitary, the cabin reeked.  
  
Kurt had to wonder at how easily Randy had turned over 'command' to Colonel Smith. Hardly made a frown when the older man started giving directives. Said a lot about Randy's state of mind. He really wasn't much better off than Sam.  
  
Kurt, somewhat guiltily, took another slow swallow of the hot coffee. He was due to relieve Daryl in a few minutes. Things were starting to happen now. Sam had slept for most of the night, but early in the wee hours of the morning, the problems had started. One didn't subsist on alcohol for as long as he had and get off it scott free. That, coupled with the fasting and an already vulnerable mental state, meant very hard times for all of them over the next few days. Or longer.  
  
He was also worried about Smith's men. He knew they would be coming shortly. Today, maybe tomorrow. Smith had insisted on sending them a message, confident they would put aside their problems with Face and come to help. Kurt just wasn't so sure it was a good idea to have them around Sam. The last thing he needed was more people telling him he wasn't who he thought he was. Especially now.  
  
He also knew they were playing with fire, acting as if Face really was Sam. To Kurt and Daryl, it was more normal to act that way, since they'd only really known him in that character. But it wasn't reality, and at some point Sam was going to have to accept his 'death' and Face's life. But, as Daryl had explained, right now it was more important to get him stabilized, physically and mentally. Smith had concurred. They would deal with the bigger issues later. Which, unfortunately, would have to include Stockwell.  
  
Kurt finished off his coffee and stood, looking out at the lake. Dew was heavy all over the grass and trees, everything twinkling in the early sun. Beautiful. So different from what was waiting inside. If Kurt didn't like Sam and Randy so well, if he didn't know what they had both gone through, it would be so easy to walk away from all of it.  
  
Sighing deeply, he turned and stepped into the nightmare.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had just put the last of the breakfast dishes away in the cupboard. Kurt had gone into the bedroom a moment before, Daryl was settling in at the kitchen table, and Randy was picking up the debris in the living room. The sooner all those empty bottles were out of the house, the sooner that particular smell would be gone. Hannibal swore he'd never drink another beer as long as he lived. He didn't think he could stomach it.  
  
Hannibal handed Daryl a cup of coffee and started frying some eggs. He wouldn't ask any questions until the man had at least had some breakfast. It was hard to be patient, but just looking at Daryl told him it hadn't been an easy night. It had been quiet until a few hours ago, but Hannibal knew Daryl had stayed up the whole time, waiting.  
  
Hannibal himself had had a restless night. His mind was in a turmoil over Face. About three he'd heard the first rumblings of trouble from the other bedroom. Voices, sometimes quiet, sometimes not so quiet. Hannibal knew what was coming. He'd seen it before, Nam, Korea. If he reached back far enough, home. Hated it then, hated it now. Had to keep that in check. Probably a good thing Face didn't want him around; that's all they needed, letting Face see the contempt he was feeling.  
  
He felt guilty about that, too. He'd had a heavy hand in putting Face in this position. And it wasn't like Face was a chronic drunk. He'd never had any problems with alcohol before this. Hannibal couldn't really blame him for turning to something. Anything. That didn't keep those old reactions from popping to the surface.  
  
Seeing that Daryl was already half way through his eggs, Hannibal took a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. Randy also grabbed a cup, leaned against the counter, waiting. That had been another surprise, Randy letting Hannibal take over so easily. He looked over at the younger man, seeing again more than just the physical resemblance between this man and his lieutenant. In another place and time, he probably would have taken Randy under his wing, made him into someone to be proud of. Hannibal knew the kid would have had the potential, just like Face. Too bad. Too damn bad. He quickly turned his attention to Daryl.  
  
"So, it's started then?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. Big time. Headache, dizziness, restless as hell. Sweating up a storm and can't sleep any more. This early...it's going to be rough." He swirled the coffee in his cup, frowning. "I'm not sure how to say this politely, Colonel, Randy, so I'm just going to say it. You two have to stay out of the way. No contact unless absolutely necessary. And, unfortunately, that means if Sam gets violent. If he needs to be subdued, I don't want either Kurt or me associated with that. Right now, Sam trusts us. I don't want anything to subvert that."  
  
"I kinda figured that." Randy set his cup on the counter, a little harder than necessary. "I'm in the enemy camp, right along with Smith and Stockwell now, aren't I?"  
  
"Couldn't be helped, Randy." Hannibal had winced at Randy's statement, but he had to acknowledge the truth, all of it. "We both knew Face - Sam - had to accept the facts, and even though we went about it differently, the outcome was the same. He wasn't ready for it, and we didn't see that. Now we just have to accept it and try to pick up the pieces. I think Daryl's going about this the right way." He looked back at Daryl. "We'll do it your way. Not going to be easy, but it's the only way I can see."  
  
Any reply Daryl might have made was cut off abruptly by Randy, who straightened suddenly and hurried to the living room. Hannibal and Daryl stared after him, only then noticing a little red light above the door blinking rapidly. Randy pulled his Beretta, and stood by the window.  
  
"I hope that's your guys, Smith, or we've got more problems."  
  
*****  
  
"So, uh, what do we do if Johnny hasn't gotten here yet?"  
  
"We wait. But he's here. The guy at the store said they came in yesterday, so he's here. The Colonel doesn't like to waste time."  
  
"Okay, next question. What if Randy's got them and not the other way around?"  
  
"Then we go in and get 'em anyway." BA shook his head disgustedly. Sometimes Frankie could be so dense...  
  
The three men remained silent as they traipsed down the steep path. Like Hannibal and the others the day before, they were almost on top of the cabin before they saw it.  
  
"Shit." Murdock muttered under his breath as they slid back amongst the trees. "Nothing like giving a little warning that we're coming..."  
  
"It wasn't clumsiness that gave you away, guys."  
  
Hannibal stepped from behind a tree, grinning, cigar in mouth, rifle in hand. "Randy's got a nifty little infrared setup out here. Got us, too."  
  
"You okay, Johnny?"  
  
"Yeah, we're fine."  
  
"We?" Murdock looked at him, The Question in his eyes.  
  
The grin disappeared immediately. "Well, most of us. Face isn't doing too well. C'mon, I'll fill you in. Had breakfast?"  
  
Half an hour later, the team sat on the porch, finishing their quick meal, trying to come to grips with all they had been told. Randy remained inside, ostensibly cleaning, but they all knew he was less than happy having them all here. Kurt was still with Sam, and Daryl had gone to bed.  
  
If Hannibal had hoped the team following him to the North Woods meant they were reconciled to bringing Face back into the team, he was sadly mistaken. While there was sympathy for Face's current problems, his past actions had not been forgotten. Or completely forgiven. It was made clear to the Colonel that his men were there for him, and that, despite the past few weeks, they always would be. The same did not hold for Face.  
  
"So what happens when this is over with, when Face is well enough to leave here, try to straighten out this identity problem? What am I supposed to do with him then? Turn him over to Stockwell? And what about Randy? You guys have plans for him, too?"  
  
"Whatever you want to do, Hannibal, we'll back you. Except for bringing him back to the team. That's over. It has to be." Murdock wouldn't look Hannibal in the eye when he spoke, a good sign, as far as the Colonel was concerned. "As to Randy, by rights he oughta be turned in to Stockwell, or the authorities. He's a murderer and an extortionist."  
  
"He swears he didn't kill that courier, and I believe him. He might kill for self-preservation, or a misguided sense of patriotism, but I can't see him doing it for greed. As to the extortion, well, none of us are exactly happy with some of Stockwell's methods. We're only with him because of the pardons."  
  
"Which aren't exactly forthcoming now, thanks to Randy and Face."  
  
"He hasn't reneged, and he won't. Randy's still got those files. And I intend to use them."  
  
"What?" BA turned to Hannibal, aghast. "You'd blackmail Stockwell?"  
  
"No, not blackmail. Just make sure he keeps his bargain. And I want protection for both Randy and Face. I may not agree with what they did, but I understand why. And when I look at that man in that cabin, and see what all of this has done, damn it, Stockwell's got to answer for that. And if that means I hold those files over his head, I'll do it!"  
  
Hannibal stood suddenly. He'd been angry for a long time, and had held it in check. But listening to these men, who had been Face's family for so long, was too much.  
  
"I started this team seventeen years ago, and I made it into my family. And, damn it, no one, including any of you, is going to tear that apart. You put yourself in Face's shoes for a while. You all think long and hard about what was done to him, and what we did to him, and think about how you would have handled it. And then you remember all the things Face has done for all of you over the years. You remember, damn it, because if you can't, I'll remind you. I'll make you sick of hearing about all the shit Face has gone through and done for you, not because he had to, not because he was ordered to, but simply because he wanted to. And I don't want to hear another goddamned word about his not coming back to us! Understood?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Is that understood!"  
  
"Yessir!"  
  
"Good. Now get your sorry asses into that cabin and help Randy clean up."  
  
Hannibal stood outside for a long time after his men had gone in. He hated losing his temper. But something had to be done. He'd been in freefall for too damn long. It was time to bring his team back together.  
  
Period.


	39. Chapter 39

Sam was dozing on the bed when Daryl left. Kurt slid into the chair next to the bed, looking him over as carefully as he could in the semi-dark. Apparently the light bothered Sam, so, although the windows were open, the curtains were drawn and none of the lights were on.  
  
Sam was sweating, pale. Kurt knew he wasn't deeply asleep; although his eyes were closed, he was in nearly constant motion. Hands twitching, legs moving restlessly, turning first on one side, then the other. And that mumbling. Back in full force. Rapid, desperate. Enough to drive a sane man crazy just listening to it.  
  
Kurt knew Daryl was worried. Neither of them knew how hard the withdrawal would hit Sam. He'd been drinking so heavily for close to two months now; that didn't necessarily mean he'd get the DT's, but all the other factors made it difficult to know. How were they supposed to know if he would be reacting to the alcohol withdrawal, or the lack of food, or his mental state? Hell, Kurt wasn't sure if the ramblings coming from the bed were from the alcohol or from Sam's overall confusion. Not knowing could kill him.  
  
Sam's eyes snapped open, wild, frightened. Kurt moved closer to the bed, began talking softly, reassuring.  
  
"It's okay, Sam. You're safe."  
  
*****  
  
Cleanup should have been a mundane chore. Not only was it necessary, but Hannibal figured it would give them all something to occupy themselves until whatever was going to happen, happened. Not a big deal.  
  
Wrong.  
  
It started out with little things. Frankie bumped into Randy as they maneuvered around the small kitchen, nearly causing him to drop an armful of bottles. A frown from Randy, an apologetic gesture from Frankie.  
  
Then Murdock accidentally tore a small hole in one of the curtains as he took it from the rod.  
  
"This was supposed to be cleaning, not demolition." Randy's grumble was just loud enough for Murdock to hear. He disdainfully ignored it.  
  
Little things, adding up.  
  
The couch, Sam's refuge outside of his bedroom, had to go. BA picked up one end, Randy the other. They had to turn it to get it out the door. Randy moved to his left, BA moved to his right. Scowled at each other. Randy moved to his right, BA to his left. Glares exchanged.  
  
"You want to keep dancing, follow my lead."  
  
"You follow my lead, sucka."  
  
Randy promptly dropped his end of the couch, pulling BA off balance. BA practically threw his end of the couch and went for Randy.  
  
Murdock and Frankie stood in the kitchen, watching, fascinated. No one challenged BA, and they were actually looking forward to Randy learning a little lesson. They'd forgotten that Randy had a few special qualities of his own, and had no inhibitions about using them.  
  
By the time Hannibal got into the cabin, Randy had BA in a tight chokehold, and there was no sign he was going to let go. Murdock and Frankie were trying to pull him off, which wasn't easy with BA thrashing around, trying to get free as he fought to stay conscious. Kurt was standing in Sam's doorway, horrified. Daryl had just opened his door, half-asleep.  
  
"What the hell..." Hannibal rushed into the fray, shoving Murdock and Frankie out of the way. Grabbing Randy's arm, he pulled to get it away from BA's neck. "Let go, Randy! Randy...damn it, Major, let go! That's an order!"  
  
Immediately Randy released BA and stood, arms stretched out to the side. He stepped back quickly, face blank, eyes cold, keeping an eye on both Murdock and Frankie. Hannibal was helping BA up, making sure he was all right, and at the same time making sure he didn't go after Randy and get everything started up again.  
  
Standing between the two men, Hannibal was about to let them have it with both barrels when there was a crash from Sam's room. Kurt looked quickly inside.  
  
"Shit!" He turned and wrapped them all with a look of pure venom. "Hope you're satisfied now." He hurried in, closing the door quickly, but quietly behind him. They could hear him talking, fast and low.  
  
Barely keeping his own voice low, Hannibal pointed to the door. "Everybody outside. Now."  
  
As he herded the chastened men out the door, he gave Daryl an apologetic look. Daryl just shook his head, disgusted, and headed in with Kurt.  
  
*****  
  
"It's okay, Sam. You're safe."  
  
Sam's eyes stayed wild, his look rabbiting around the room, as if searching for something.  
  
"Where...?"  
  
"You're in the cabin, Sam. Up by the lake. It's safe here, Sam."  
  
"Cabin? What cabin? Why? Where's..."  
  
"You're ill, Sam. But you're going to be fine. I'm here for you, so is Daryl. You're safe, okay?"  
  
"Where's...where's..."  
  
"Where's who, Sam? What?"  
  
Sam slowly sat up, held his head in his hands. Mumbled something.  
  
"What did you say, Sam?"  
  
"Cold..."  
  
"Okay." Kurt grabbed another blanket, wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. "Better?"  
  
"I don't know. I can't...think." He looked up, started looking quickly around the room again.  
  
"What are you looking for, Sam?"  
  
"Where is he?" Demanding, angry. Voice stronger, though hoarse.  
  
"Where's who, Sam?"  
  
"You don't know. You never did. Never. Never..." He began rocking, holding his knees, watching the room. "You don't know..."  
  
"Sam." Kurt moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed now. "You're safe, Sam. Safe."  
  
Sam had kept rocking, mumbling. He seemed to retreat back into himself again. At least he seemed calmer.  
  
And then the ruckus arose in the living room.  
  
Kurt heard two loud thumps, followed by obvious sounds of scuffling, grunting, raised voices. Sam didn't seem to notice. Not yet. Kurt quickly stepped to the door and stepped out into the chaos.  
  
Kurt immediately flashed back to Redondo Beach. Randy had the same look on his face, cold, passive, dispassionate. He had his arm locked around BA's throat and was squeezing tightly. BA was struggling to break the hold, but Randy's stance was such the man couldn't get any position. Murdock and Frank were also trying to pull them apart. Then Smith was there, pushing and shoving, shouting at Randy. Taking command. Randy suddenly released his hold and stood back, obedient soldier.  
  
Then came the crash from behind him. Kurt whirled, saw Sam had jumped - or fallen - from the bed, knocking over the nightstand, and was clawing frantically at the wall.  
  
"Shit!" He said something to the men in the living room, not even realizing or caring what, and shut the door behind him. He hurried over to Sam, grabbing his shoulders, trying to get his attention.  
  
"Barish...he's here...he's here..."  
  
"No, Sam, no. Barish is dead. He's dead, Sam."  
  
Kurt felt, rather than saw, Daryl beside him. Both men kept trying to reassure Sam that Barish was dead, but he didn't seem to hear them. Kurt wasn't sure Sam even knew they were holding him.  
  
Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Sam suddenly went still, blinked a couple of times, and looked around him.  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
"Yeah, Sam, it's me. Me and Daryl."  
  
He clutched his stomach. "I...feel sick..."  
  
They got him into the adjoining bathroom just in time.  
  
*****  
  
The four men stood on the shore, looking everywhere but at the Colonel. He stood several feet apart from them, cigar smoke curling rapidly as he puffed, waiting.  
  
"I don't like repeating myself. What the hell happened in there? BA?"  
  
BA gulped. He'd been thinking, ever since Hannibal's outburst earlier, about all that had happened. Not just recently, but, as the Colonel had said, over all these past years. He had been feeling bad, very bad, about his actions, his words...and yet, there was some part of him that just couldn't get past the last few weeks. And the longer he was around Randy, the bigger that part of him got.  
  
He shouldn't have let things get to him. He should've just moved the damn couch and let it go. But something had just snapped. Coupled with the guilt and the shame of losing control, was the confusion at how easily he'd been beaten. That just didn't happen.  
  
"It was my fault, Colonel." BA looked up in surprise. Randy, taking the blame?  
  
"I lost my temper. It won't happen again."  
  
Hannibal frowned. Looked at Randy closely. Still no expression on his face, just cold, calm...killer. Same man that had been on the beach. Not the salvageable kid any more.  
  
"It had better not. None of it." He shared the glare with the rest of the men. "We've got one mission here. And he's in that cabin. Anybody got a problem with that?"  
  
No one said a word. Randy looked at Smith, questioning. Hannibal sighed, nodded, and watched as Randy headed back to the cabin.  
  
"Uh, Colonel?" Murdock was toeing the sand, looking up hesitantly.  
  
"What, Murdock?" Hannibal felt so tired. He didn't want more complications, but knew Murdock would provide them.  
  
"Randy was a major?"  
  
Hannibal closed his eyes, resigned. He'd slipped there, but there'd been no other way.  
  
"Yeah, he was a major." He looked at BA, knowing he was feeling sheepish about the result of the fight. "Project Phoenix."  
  
Frankie was the only one who didn't look stricken. He had no idea what they were talking about.  
  
"What's...?"  
  
"Never mind, Frankie. Just remember, Randy's on the edge right now. Don't push him, okay?"  
  
"Oh, I got that already, Johnny, loud and clear."  
  
"Good."  
  
Hannibal looked once more at his men before heading back to the cabin. He had to talk to Randy, get a few things straight. Complications. Damn.  
  
Frankie looked undecided about whether to go or stay, finally opting to take a walk. He didn't really want to be around any of the guys right now. They were all acting...spooky.  
  
BA and Murdock stared out at the water. The sun had burned away the dew, and now it was silent except for the wash of the waves on the shore and the birds in the surrounding woods. Peaceful.  
  
"I saw you but let you live; next time you die." Murdock said it quietly, almost reverently.  
  
"The man's a time bomb, man." BA stared back at the cabin. "I hope Hannibal knows what he's doin."


	40. Chapter 40

Randy stood in the kitchen, waiting for Smith to come in. He knew the Colonel would give him a dressing down, and he also knew he deserved it. That didn't bother him. What bothered him was the idea that he had somehow let Sam down by fighting with Baracus. Fighting...no. By trying to kill him. Randy knew with certainty that if Smith hadn't come in, he would have choked the life out of the sergeant without even thinking about it.  
  
It was one of the things that made him valuable to Stockwell. He'd been well on his way to becoming another Clifton. A hired gun. A man who took care of the things that a man like Smith couldn't, or wouldn't, take care of. Who would do it without thinking, without remorse.  
  
Randy sighed. He'd been on the path to become that man, but something had held him back. It had taken some time to figure out what it was, but once he had, he was lost to Stockwell. Some would call it a conscience; others, humanity. He called it Sam.  
  
The fight with Baracus told him something he hadn't wanted to admit. Hadn't wanted to accept. He was moving back into that old way of thinking, the old way of life. It seemed almost inevitable. Because he knew, deep down, that he was losing Sam.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt and Daryl were seated on the floor in the bedroom, one by the window, one by the door. They were both trying to be outwardly calm, not let Sam see their anxiety. He had more than enough of his own.  
  
They had gotten him back on the bed, thinking he would surely sleep after the bout of vomiting he'd gone through. That had lasted maybe five minutes. Weak as he was, he couldn't rest. He hadn't paced as much as he'd staggered from point to point in the room, grabbing the headboard, the dresser, chair, the walls, anything to keep himself upright. Stopping now and then to mutter incoherently to himself, then moving on again. On occasion he would stop and stare at one or the other of them, puzzled at times, seemingly angry at others. He didn't speak directly to either one of them.  
  
Daryl had positioned himself by the window when Sam first started swaying around the room, to make sure he didn't accidentally go through the glass. Kurt had automatically stationed himself by the door; instinct born of years dealing with bad guys. He doubted Sam had enough clarity to try an escape, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen just as a panic reaction. Kurt would have felt a lot better if he knew one of the others was actually in the cabin. If something did happen, it could be disastrous if he or Daryl had to struggle with Sam. He had to see them as friends, as allies. If need be, they had to appear to be as helpless against the team and Randy as he himself was.  
  
Kurt hoped, if it came down to that, that Randy would not be involved, either. Sam's relationship with the team couldn't be any worse, and somehow, Kurt thought Face would accept whatever the team did without question. But Sam and Randy had a special bond; one that caused Sam to turn his back on his 'duty' and save Randy from Barish; hell, to leave the team. One that made Randy take chances to protect Sam that he wouldn't even consider for someone else, that helped him go up against Stockwell. And that bond was stretched to the limit right now. Kurt didn't want it broken. It would be devastating for both men. Even if Face came back.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal stepped into the kitchen, saying nothing, getting a cup of coffee and sitting at the table. He saw the glum look on Randy's face, and decided that a reaming out was not what the man needed right now. A muffled noise came from Sam's room, and Randy's head jerked up, listening. When nothing more came, he relaxed, but only slightly.  
  
It was then that Hannibal realized how blind he'd been to the real dynamics going on. He, and the rest of the team, had seen Randy as some kind of Machiavellian villain, drawing Face into a conspiracy against Stockwell, against the team. The wizard stealing the prince from his kingdom. The level of antipathy the team felt toward Randy had nothing to do with his past. It had nothing to do with the extortion, or the routing he'd given them. It was all about his taking what was theirs. And the anger BA and Murdock felt? It had as much to do with Face choosing Randy over them as it did with his consequent actions.  
  
Jealousy.  
  
Right from the start, when Face had been returned to them, they had fought to distance him from Randy. Had changed the subject whenever Randy came up, been indifferent to his attempts to talk about what he had done during the time with Randy. Told themselves it was best for Face to forget all about that, that it was for his own good that he concentrate on remembering his real past, remembering the team. But was it actually the idea that he had become so close to someone else, that there was another out there who could take their place? Had it been for his benefit or their egos that they wanted him to forget about Randy?  
  
And what about Randy? Had he forced Face to become Sam? Had the choice been forget Face or leave Randy? Had Face gone from the frying pan into the fire? Was that what had brought about this disintegration? Somehow, Hannibal didn't believe that.  
  
Watching Randy now, Hannibal saw how wrong they had been. Whatever Randy was, whatever he had done, he genuinely cared about Sam. Maybe even about Face.  
  
Hannibal looked up at Randy, who was watching him carefully in return.  
  
"Sit down, Randy. We need to have a talk. A long talk."  
  
*****  
  
The mumbling had stopped earlier. Kurt had found the silent shadow stumbling around the room to be infinitely more disconcerting. Sam had been leaning heavily against the corner walls for several minutes, watching them. Cornered, literally. Watching him had been like watching television with the remote control gone haywire; anger, then fear, then confusion, even occasionally a smile, each emotion lasting no more than a few seconds. Then he just went blank and abruptly slid to the floor.  
  
Daryl looked over at Kurt, mutely signaling him to stay put. Daryl himself stood slowly, stiffly, and moved over to Sam. Sat cross-legged near him, but not too close.  
  
"Sam? How you feeling?"  
  
Sam looked at him, hesitant. "I'm...fine."  
  
"Tired?"  
  
"No. I'm fine. Fine."  
  
"Okay. That's good. Uh, I was thinking about fixing a little something to eat. Would you like something?"  
  
"No. I'm not hungry." He pulled absently at the carpet.  
  
"If I fixed you some soup, would you eat it?"  
  
"I'm not hungry." Pulled a little harder at the fibers.  
  
"As a favor to me?"  
  
No response. Yanked at the carpet.  
  
"Okay, Sam. Okay."  
  
Daryl waited a few minutes. Sam quit picking at the carpet, closed his eyes. Slowly, Daryl stood and moved over to Kurt. Sam's eyes opened, watched the two men. Otherwise, he didn't move.  
  
"Can you fix up some soup for him? We've got to try and get something in him or he's going to dehydrate."  
  
Kurt nodded and left. Daryl returned to sit by Sam, who looked warily at him before once again closing his eyes, shutting him out.  
  
Randy and the Colonel were sitting at the kitchen table when Kurt came in.  
  
"I need some soup for him."  
  
Randy practically leaped up, grabbing a can of soup from the shelf, a kettle from the cupboard. "He agreed to eat something?"  
  
"Not yet, but Daryl wants to try."  
  
Randy nodded, got the soup heating.  
  
"How's he doing?" Hannibal was watching Randy, who appeared calm except for a nervous drumming of his fingers against his thigh.  
  
"Restless as hell, bouncing from one emotion to another. Was sicker than a dog a while ago. So far, though, nothing unexpected."  
  
Hannibal nodded. Nothing unexpected. That was probably as good as it was going to get for a while.  
  
The soup ready, Kurt poured some into a cup and carried it carefully into the bedroom.  
  
"Please, let him eat something..."  
  
Hannibal didn't respond. He knew the comment wasn't meant for his ears.  
  
Daryl was still seated by Sam. He took the cup and gently touched Sam's arm.  
  
"Sam. Sam, your soup is here."  
  
Sam kept his eyes closed, frowned, annoyed. "Not hungry, I said."  
  
Daryl looked puzzled. "But you asked for some soup, Sam."  
  
The bloodshot eyes opened, Sam's turn to be puzzled. "I did?"  
  
"Yeah. Just a few minutes ago. But if you don't remember..."  
  
"I remember. Just...a little fuzzy, that's all."  
  
"So you want it?"  
  
"Of course I want it! I wouldn't have asked for it otherwise."  
  
"Okay, Sam. No problem."  
  
Daryl smiled at Kurt, as he helped Sam hold the cup and cautioned him to sip it. Sometimes a lie was a good thing. A very good thing.


	41. Chapter 41

Both men waited for several minutes, listening. When no outbursts came from the bedroom, both visibly relaxed. Randy returned to his seat at the table, bracing himself for Hannibal's onslaught. He had a pretty good idea what the subject would be, and was prepared to take his tongue-lashing without a whimper.  
  
He was very surprised at Hannibal's first words.  
  
"I'm sorry things have turned out the way they have. For all of us. Not just this," he gestured toward the bedroom, "but all of it. We - I - handled it all wrong."  
  
"If you're apologizing, don't. You only did what you thought best."  
  
"No, not really. But that's neither here nor there. My point is that it's time to get our act together. We have to get Sam straightened out. After that, what happens is up to him. Whatever he decides, I'll go along with."  
  
"What about the others? They don't seem too happy to be here."  
  
"They have some things to work through. They'll come around." I hope. "In the meantime, I need to know what's really been going on. When did he start drinking?"  
  
Randy sighed, ran his hand over his face. "Shortly after he came to Minneapolis. After leaving you guys. I didn't pay much attention to it at first. He wasn't out of control, a few beers now and then, to relax. Then we went after Mrs. Baracus. I made a big mistake. Showed him the photo albums she had. Pictures from Nam of all of you. That night, he drank himself into oblivion. I should have known then things were going in the shitter. I think that's when he really started losing it.  
  
"I don't know what happened at the cemetery. That wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt. He was only supposed to keep you guys in line. When he found me helping you, I think something snapped. Then, we had Clifton. We were working him, but nothing he couldn't handle. Sensory deprivation type stuff. But Clifton was smart. Brought up Sam's original role in Barish's experiment.  
  
"Frankly, it took me by surprise. I hadn't really thought about that part of things. About Sam voluntarily working for Barish."  
  
"Voluntarily? It was never..."  
  
"I know that! But, like I said, I hadn't even thought about it, hadn't been prepared for Clifton to bring it up. Neither was Sam. And Clifton kept referring to Face, and that it was Face who hadn't had a choice, but Sam had, on and on. It took me by surprise; it tore Sam apart.  
  
"I got him the hell out of there, but the damage was already done. He hit the booze almost immediately. Didn't want to talk about it, said Clifton was full of shit. But he wasn't sure. I could tell. And, I'll admit, I had some doubts. I didn't remember a lot about that time; still don't. Now, of course, I know the score. It just took a little time for me to figure it out. Anyway, I ended up going to bed, Sam stayed up, drinking."  
  
"And then he tried to kill Clifton." Hannibal hadn't wanted to consider that possibility, had preferred to think it was Randy again. Obviously, he'd been wrong.  
  
"Basically. And I stopped him. He wasn't himself. It was the booze." Defensive. Protective. "I guess that was pretty much the final straw." Randy's voice was matter-of-fact, but Hannibal caught the tinge of regret that seeped out. "I brought him up here, hoped we could salvage things, but it didn't work out. He made one try to get away, go after Stockwell again, and, again, I stopped him. After that he just fell into the booze bottle and never came out." He looked up at Hannibal, anger in his eyes. "With friends like us, huh, Smith?"  
  
"Yeah." Hannibal got up, poured them each more coffee, sat down heavily. Looked around the kitchen. Hoping to lighten the atmosphere, he nodded toward the lake. "This is a nice place. Belonged to your grandparents?"  
  
Randy stiffened. "You did your homework."  
  
"It's how we found you. Tax records. You paid up just before coming here."  
  
"Ah. Necessities of government screwed me up again." He, too, looked out toward the lake. "Yeah, this was the old homestead. Home, sweet home." Hannibal caught a hint of bitterness in the voice.  
  
"They raised you, didn't they?"  
  
"More or less. I was born and raised not far from here. When my parents and one brother were killed in a car accident, my other brother and I came here to live with my father's parents. I was eleven, my brother was fifteen."  
  
"Must have been a great place to grow up."  
  
"Yeah, right." Randy chuckled, mirthlessly. "Ala 'On Golden Pond', right? My grandmother was a cold hearted bitch whose only joy in life died in a car wreck. If she said anything to us, it was 'shut up'. My grandfather was an anarchist, from the 'old country'. Hated government, any government, any authority. Only reason he took us in was because he couldn't stand the idea of the state raising us."  
  
"Sounds cold."  
  
"He used to beat the shit out of us if we so much as spoke without his permission. He hated authority, but he made damn sure there was only one boss in his house." Randy stared out into space, frowning. "My brother lasted about a year."  
  
"Ran away?"  
  
"My grandfather beat him to death."  
  
"I...I'm sorry."  
  
Randy shrugged. "He mouthed off when he shouldn't have. Caused my grandfather no end of trouble, although he came out of it all right in the end. Back then, people didn't care so much what you did with your kids. Called it an accident. But I learned my lesson. I toed the mark, right up until my eighteenth birthday. Then I got even. I joined the Army. The ultimate Government Authority. Pissed him off but good." Randy smiled, bitterly. "I'm surprised he didn't write me out of the will, but again, that would have meant his property would go to the state and no way in hell he'd let that happen."  
  
"When did they pass away?" Hannibal was hinting for details, details he didn't think he wanted to know, but he needed to.  
  
"A while after I left. I remember I'd just finished my SF training." Randy again got that faraway look in his eye. "Lots of bums and scum roam through these wilderness areas, y'know? Apparently one of them decided to rob the place, and dear old Granddad got himself killed trying to defend his property. My grandmother died a short while after that. She was totally gaga by then, anyway."  
  
"A bum, huh?"  
  
"Yeah. A bum." Randy looked at him, and the coldness in his eyes made Hannibal flinch.  
  
"All that shit, yet you kept the place."  
  
"Yeah, figured it would be worth something some day. And I don't believe in ghosts. I've seen a lot of people die, Smith. No one's come back for me yet."


	42. Chapter 42

Randy abruptly stood, moved to the doorway of the living room.  
  
"You want to get Baracus back in here, we'll get that couch out." He turned, fired a warning look at Hannibal. "That 'intimate moment of sharing' is just between us. My past is mine. Nobody else's."  
  
Hannibal nodded coolly. No way he was going to tell any one else here. His own feelings were mixed up enough. Horror, sympathy, anger, disgust...regret. He didn't think Murdock or the others were up to that mess. Not now. And there would be no reason to share it afterwards. He stood, putting both coffee cups in the sink and walked outside. The cool breeze from the lake felt very good.  
  
Murdock and BA were still standing by the lake, talking, and Hannibal headed down. Hopefully, they had both cooled down enough to get on with business. He really wasn't up to more confrontations.  
  
"Guys." They looked up simultaneously. BA nodded, back to his usual taciturn self. Murdock hesitated, then smiled, tentatively.  
  
"Hannibal. Sorry about the fight. It won't happen again. Promise."  
  
Hannibal waved his hand, dismissing it, inwardly relieved. His guys would pull through this. Eventually.  
  
"I think Daryl and Kurt are getting some soup into Sam, so maybe he's feeling better." If the guys were bothered by the name, they didn't comment. "BA, you want to try the couch again?"  
  
BA hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure, Hannibal. We can dump it back of the house." He looked up at the cabin, straightened determinedly and headed in. Hannibal smiled after him.  
  
"Hannibal?"  
  
"Yeah, Murdock?"  
  
"We're trying, okay? I just...hell, I just wish Face...Damn. It's been so long...and the way he feels about us now...It's hard, with Randy around."  
  
"I know, Murdock. And a large part of this is my fault. Like it or not, Randy's part of Face's life. We can't shut that up in a box and toss it away. I won't make that mistake again. We have to accept that if we ever want Face back. If we ever expect to earn his trust again."  
  
"I know. BA and I talked about that." Hannibal looked up, somewhat surprised. "Yeah, we do talk seriously now and then. And we know we kinda pushed him into doing the things he did. Doesn't make it any easier to accept. It still makes me angry, but..." Murdock sighed, plowed on. "Well, you were right. About Face. He's still in there. We just gotta find him again. I guess I wasn't always easy to deal with, either."  
  
"But Randy's a little harder for you to handle than Billy was for us."  
  
Murdock smiled sheepishly.  
  
"That's one of the things BA and I talked about. The thing is, Face always was a good judge of character. And even if he wasn't himself, instincts like that don't just disappear. If Face - or Sam - thought Randy was worth sticking by, then, even if it's hard to see it, he must be okay. And I think Randy really does care about Face, he's not just using him..." Murdock made a face. "It's just...what he did...his past..."  
  
Hannibal was startled, then remembered what Murdock meant. "He was fucked up in LA, Murdock. As bad as Face was, if not worse. And Nam was a different time. People did things they wouldn't otherwise. Like robbing banks." They smiled at each other. "Sometimes, things happen to people that shouldn't and it changes the way they look at life. Doesn't mean it changes them. Deep down. Just means you have to work a little harder to find them."  
  
"You like him, don't you?"  
  
"I don't know. He's dangerous, I don't forget that. And I'm not sure I trust him farther than I could throw a bull by the tail. But sometimes people get forced down the wrong path. Think that's just how things are. Then they find someone like Face..."  
  
Murdock looked quizzically at Hannibal. When he didn't say any more, Murdock just nodded and headed up to the cabin.  
  
Hannibal stayed, looking out at the lake. Thinking about a twelve-year-old boy. Murdock was right. If Face, even as Sam, thought Randy was worth 'keeping', he was.  
  
He smiled, a little buzz starting in his head.  
  
*****  
  
"Would you like a little more, Sam?"  
  
Sam shook his head, pushing the cup away. He closed his eyes, braced his head against the corner. He was still pale, sweating, but the restlessness seemed to have gone. He looked exhausted.  
  
"Do you want to lie down?"  
  
"No."  
  
Daryl sighed, but at least they'd gotten something down him. And so far, it was staying down.  
  
"How about you?" Kurt sat on the other side of Sam, looking concerned. "You haven't gotten much sleep."  
  
"Yeah, I should take another stab at it. Hopefully there won't be another...disturbance." He glanced at Sam. "Holler if you need help."  
  
Daryl carefully stood up, watching for any adverse reaction from Sam. When there was no movement from the corner, he nodded and quietly left the room. Kurt settled himself more comfortably, preparing for a hopefully boring watch.  
  
He was relieved that Sam had quieted down, but he didn't trust the interlude. It would be great if this was all that Sam would have to go through, if he could just stay relaxed and finish drying out. But Kurt knew better, and he knew Daryl was just waiting for the next round. The only real question was how long before it started.  
  
He thought about the fight in the living room. Not unexpected. He knew there would be big trouble when Smith's men showed up. Even so, he'd have expected them to have a little more self control. And Randy...that bothered him a lot. Too much like before. Kurt knew he was under a lot of pressure, feeling a lot of guilt, and he was not happy having the team here. At all. It was a sign of his concern for Sam that Randy allowed them to stay.  
  
And Kurt was under no illusions. They were being 'allowed' to stay. If Randy decided he didn't want them here, they'd be gone. One way or another.  
  
Movement from the corner. Sam was looking around, searching for something. He looked puzzled, then angry.  
  
"Something wrong, Sam?"  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"Daryl? He went to get some sleep."  
  
"Not him, you idiot! The other one. Smith! Where is he? I know he's here. He wouldn't leave. Not until he's finished."  
  
"Finished with what, Sam?"  
  
But Sam was already off on another plane. He was now looking nervously at his arms, first one, then the other.  
  
"Do you see them?" Whispering.  
  
"See what, Sam?"  
  
Ignoring him, Sam slowly started picking at his arm. Almost cautiously.  
  
"You have to be careful. Not let the others know."  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Shhh. I have to get them, one...by...one..." He picked again at his arm, pinching the skin, leaving a small red mark. "If you aren't careful, they'll know what you're doing, and then they'll come, all of them, all at once."  
  
"Sam..."  
  
"Shh!" He frowned, concentrating, pinching, ever so slowly moving up his arm.  
  
Kurt sat, still, watching in fascination. Whatever Sam was doing, he was totally absorbed in it. Kurt was a little concerned about the marks he was leaving, but he didn't seem to be causing any real damage. And apparently, as long on neither of them did anything to alert 'them', Sam was safe.  
  
For several minutes, all was quiet. Kurt watched as Sam kept pinching his skin, the deep frown of concentration remaining. He finished with his right arm, carefully, cautiously, started on his left. And suddenly stopped. Looked around, suspiciously. Scrambled awkwardly to his feet, breathing hard. Kurt stood up, ready to catch the weaving man.  
  
Sam didn't seem to even notice Kurt. Lurching forward, he grabbed the back of the chair, all the time looking around him, searching once more.  
  
"He's here. He's here. Steal me. Steal me..." Almost a whisper. Shook his head. Angry. "Not this time...My father..."  
  
Kurt moved cautiously toward the window, seating himself in front of it. Watched as Sam began the now familiar routine, stumbling around the room, reciting.  
  
It was going to be a long day.  
  
*****  
  
BA and Randy had moved the couch without incident out of the cabin and around to the back. It had been heavy and awkward, and both men stood for a moment, catching their breath. BA kicked at the corner of the couch, as if not satisfied with its position. Randy watched him. Took a deep breath.  
  
"I hope your mother wasn't too upset."  
  
BA tensed for a moment. No, he owed it to Hannibal to at least try.  
  
"She was okay with it. More worried 'bout Face than anythin."  
  
"She seemed like a real nice woman...I'm sorry we used her like that. Really. I don't like using civilians."  
  
"So why did you?" BA couldn't keep all the anger out of his voice, despite great effort.  
  
Randy didn't want to put all the blame on Sam; that wouldn't help rebuild things between him and the team. "It was the only thing we could think of. And we never, never, planned any harm to her. That never would have happened."  
  
BA nodded. He realized Randy was protecting Face, that only Face would have known about his mother, could have set things up so quickly. Randy, taking a good share of the blame. Like he had the fight. Making an effort. Worried more about Face than the consequences of having the team here. He looked at Randy, who was staring out at the lake, idly turning a small stick in his hands.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, BA recognized something of what Face had seen.  
  
Maybe.


	43. Chapter 43

The rest of the day dragged by. The men occupied themselves as best they could with the rest of the cleaning, but, since Sam was now having problems coping with noise, there wasn't much they could do. There was still an odor in the place, but they were getting used to it. They would wander in and out of the cabin, being careful to close the door softly, but the tedium was getting to them.  
  
Murdock noticed the fishing equipment on the porch, and, after some gentle encouragement from Hannibal, Randy rounded up a couple more poles and the two of them, accompanied by Frankie, went down to the dock. BA watched them, giving Hannibal a we-all-know-what-you're-trying-to-do look. Hannibal just smiled.  
  
Daryl woke up mid-afternoon and grabbed a quick sandwich before going in with Kurt and Sam. A few minutes later, Kurt came out, looking guilty.  
  
"Problem, Kurt?"  
  
"Sam's looking pretty rough; we need to check his vitals, get a blood sample, but he won't stand still long enough. Fact is, he just won't let us get anywhere near him now. Talking is fine; getting close is not. We, uh, we need someone to, uh..." He looked helplessly at BA.  
  
"It's okay, man. You need a bad guy to hold him down while you check him over."  
  
"Basically. That, and, uh, you need to order us to check him out."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Daryl wants to cover all the bases, in case Sam puts two and two together, and tries to blame us."  
  
"He's taking the good guy/bad guy thing that seriously?" Hannibal was a little skeptical. The last time he'd seen Sam, the man looked like he wouldn't know if someone slugged him, let alone who did it.  
  
"There's no telling what he's taking in and what he isn't. All we need is one misunderstanding and we lose. He hasn't lost any of his paranoia. If he thinks we're on the wrong side..." Kurt shrugged. Obviously neither he nor Daryl were willing to take any chances. Hannibal decided he couldn't either.  
  
"You okay with that, BA?"  
  
"No, but what choice I got? Let's do it."  
  
"Okay, I'll go in first. Wait a couple minutes, then come on in. Be prepared for anything. And I mean, anything." Kurt looked at them again, apologetically.  
  
"It's okay, Kurt. Don't worry about it."  
  
BA waited three minutes, steeling himself. There were two things he didn't want to do. He didn't want to go in assuming Face was going to be a basket case and get his head kicked in. More worrisome, he didn't want his still simmering anger at the man to take over.  
  
Hannibal would never forgive him if he beat the shit out of Face.  
  
*****  
  
Frankie was not a fisherman. He was too talkative and too hyper. Add to these natural tendencies his nervousness about being around Randy, and it was a recipe for disaster. Murdock caught on quickly, saw that without some kind of intervention, Frankie would probably end up Randy's latest victim. So Murdock took Frankie to one side, talked very seriously to him for a few minutes, and returned to his spot on the dock. Frankie grabbed a bucket and headed down the shoreline, head down, checking the beach.  
  
Randy watched him for a few minutes, obviously puzzled. His curiosity finally got the best of him.  
  
"What's he doing?"  
  
Murdock glanced over at the retreating figure, a small smile on his face. "He's looking for Lumbricus terrestris."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Lumbricus terrestris. Anecic vermis. As differentiated from the eipgeic, and the endogeic. Anecic's are the princes of piscis procurement."  
  
"He's looking for worms."  
  
"More importantly, he searches for those of prodigious magnitude for maximum exposure."  
  
"Very large worms."  
  
"Correct."  
  
"Which is bound to keep him out of our hair for quite some time."  
  
"Precisamente."  
  
Randy looked out at the lake for a moment. Smiled.  
  
"Cool."  
  
Murdock smiled contentedly and tossed his line in the water.  
  
*****  
  
BA swung the door open and stepped determinedly into the maelstrom of the bedroom. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and then he got his first look at Face. Hannibal had told them when they arrived what the situation was, but the physical description hadn't done him justice. Face was a mess. Hair long and greasy, matted beard, the smell. Even with the windows open, BA could feel his stomach lurch. But it was the eyes that stopped him cold. Wild, glazed, darting here and there as if watching a hundred tennis balls bouncing around. He stared at the apparition across the room, and any anger he had held onto evaporated.  
  
Kurt had been sitting by the door, just out of its way. He immediately got to his feet. He had hopes that Sam would just capitulate at the sight of the big sergeant, but he knew they were more pipe dreams than anything. He tensed, ready.  
  
Daryl was standing in front of the window, and didn't look at BA's entrance. He was watching Sam, waiting for the first move.  
  
Sam finally focused on BA's general direction, and his stomach clutched. He could barely make out the figure by the door, but he knew who it was. The Colonel's monster.  
  
This is it, Sam. Smith's finally decided to kill you.  
  
Fuck 'em. He wouldn't die easy.  
  
Daryl saw Sam looking over at BA, immediately caught the stiffening in the man's body. He tried to sound convincingly angry.  
  
"What are you doing here, Baracus?"  
  
BA hesitated a split second, focusing on his mission, made his voice stern. "Orders. Gotta check him over." He looked back at Sam, swallowed hard. Be convincing, without creating more havoc than necessary. "C'mon over here, Face. Make it easy on everbody."  
  
"Leave him alone, Sergeant."  
  
It started. Sam's chant. Kurt and Daryl both heard it, recognized it. BA had no idea what it was, but it spooked him. Bad. It started, like the drone of a beehive, starting out low, getting louder, faster, angry. Lots of anger. Directed right at BA.  
  
Shit.  
  
Kurt, standing nearest to BA, murmured softly. "Take him, BA, but easy does it. Don't want to give him a heart attack." BA glanced at him. He was dead serious. Great.  
  
BA moved slowly toward Sam, who gripped the back of the chair tightly. For a moment, he held his position. BA moved closer. Sam tried to step forward, attack, but he only fumbled against the chair. BA heard the chant falter. Closer. Sam, stumbling over the words now, staggered back a step. Desperation replacing the anger in his voice. Panicking. BA stopped, stricken. Face wasn't just seeing BA. He was seeing something much worse coming out of the shadows. God only knew what. BA decided enough was enough. He'd moved slowly, not wanting to upset Face more than necessary, but it was backfiring. Get it over. Quick.  
  
For a big man, BA could move surprisingly fast. Before any of them realized what had happened, BA had his arms wrapped around Sam's shoulders and chest, his head pressed down on Sam's, dragging him down to the floor. Sam was trapped, but struggled with every bit of strength he had left.  
  
"Okay, Face, now you settle down and we'll get this done and over. Just calm down. Calm down." BA kept talking, soothing, trying to break through the fear.  
  
Sam kept struggling, but his strength was giving out fast. One final, unsuccessful wrench, and his body gave out. He sagged in BA's grip, breathing hard.  
  
BA held him tightly for another couple of minutes, until he figured there would be no more struggles. Loosening his grip, but not letting go, he looked over at Daryl. BA forced himself to remain 'in character'.  
  
"Git over here and do what you were told to. Now."  
  
Daryl picked up the med kit and hurried over. He pulled out the syringe for the blood sample, wanting to get that out of the way first. Swabbing Sam's arm, he looked into the now dull eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sam. I have to."  
  
Sam looked past him, face blank, eyes unfocused. Whispered. Daryl just barely made out the words.  
  
"Get them...one by one...careful...they'll know...they'll come...one by one....shhh..."  
  
*****  
  
Murdock and Randy were on their way up from the dock. Frankie had finally given up on the worms, and the fishing, and waited for them on the porch, dozing in the late afternoon sun. Hannibal stepped out to greet the fishermen, listened to the tales of the ones that got away, grinned at the ones that hadn't. It was a moment out of time, when the four men could forget what had brought them here.  
  
It lasted only a moment. BA came storming out of the cabin, stopped to glare at the group of men, and hurried off the porch and up the drive. Hannibal immediately went after him, the others staring. Before any of them could follow, Kurt stepped out.  
  
"Leave them alone, guys. Let Hannibal deal with it. That's who BA needs right now." He sat down heavily, rubbing his face hard.  
  
"What happened in there?" Randy was angry, but scared, too. "Sam...?"  
  
"Sam's...okay. We had to get a blood sample, check him over. BA had to hold him down. It wasn't..." He shook his head, looked up at Randy. "Daryl's getting the blood sample wrapped up. You need to take it to a doctor, have it checked. Daryl's writing up something, said the doctor will know what to do."  
  
"Okay. But Sam's okay? You sure?"  
  
"He's okay, considering. His heart rate's up, even factoring in the stress of the moment. Blood pressure, too. So those are a concern. We'll know better what's going on when we get the blood work back." Kurt shook himself. He wasn't about to tell them about the latest ramblings. He was sure BA would tell Hannibal, and the Colonel would decide what the rest of them needed to know. "You know a doctor that'll cooperate, Randy?"  
  
"He will when I ask him."  
  
Kurt didn't stop to think about the cold tone of voice, just nodded and headed into the cabin.  
  
Five minutes later, Randy drove away in a cloud of dust. The rest of the men sat on the porch, waiting for Hannibal and BA, waiting for the other shoe to fall.


	44. Chapter 44

Hannibal caught up with BA after a couple minutes. He hadn't gone that far, up the drive and into the woods a few yards. When Hannibal came up on him, he was smashing a large branch against a rotting log, taking long swings and bringing it down hard and fast. Hannibal stopped at a safe distance from the flying debris, and waited. It wasn't safe to get too close when BA lost it; though it rarely happened, it was never pretty.  
  
Finally, when the branch was nothing but splinters which BA let drop from his fingers, Hannibal stepped forward. BA was breathing hard, sweating, scowling as deep as he ever had. He swung to face the Colonel, and it was clear he hadn't completely vented even now.  
  
"That bad, BA?"  
  
BA didn't answer at first, just clenched his fists and looked everywhere but at Hannibal. Muttered something angrily.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, he's like some damn animal! At least Murdock was happy bein crazy. Face, he's just...just..."  
  
Hannibal frowned. "I know he was pretty out of it, but I didn't think he was that bad."  
  
"Yeah, well, he's gone round the bend now, Hannibal. I never seen anyone look that bad, and I hope to God I never do again. He could hardly stand up, and his eyes...they was goin all over the place, Hannibal. And then he started talking, crazy stuff. Didn't make no sense at all. First it was somethin about his father; then he started saying somethin about someone comin. Just kept sayin 'one by one', over and over..." BA stopped, shook his head.  
  
Hannibal was getting worried about BA now; he'd never seen the man so spooked. "It'll be okay, BA. It's just the alcohol, working its way out. It's not pretty, but he'll come out of it."  
  
"That ain't it, Hannibal. I've seen that before and this ain't it. He's just plain crazy." BA took a couple deep breaths, trying to force the scene from the bedroom out of his mind. There was more to it. Hannibal knew it, too. BA was thinking about how he had turned his back on Face, angry at what he'd done, wanting to make him pay. And now he had.  
  
"BA, we couldn't have seen this coming."  
  
"You knew he wasn't right. You tried to tell us. But me and Murdock..." BA scowled even deeper. "You can't let Murdock see him, Hannibal. No way. He couldn't handle it. You gotta keep him away from Face until this is all over."  
  
"Murdock's probably seen this before, BA. After all, he lived in a psych ward."  
  
"This is diff'rent, Hannibal. This is Face." BA stared down at the rotting log. "Leastwise, it used to be..."  
  
*****  
  
Randy pulled into the driveway, and sat, staring at the house. It had been a long, long time since he'd set foot here. Not since the old man died. Remembered the look on the doctor's face as he'd talked to Randy, the suspicions, the anxiety. The fear. He had to smile at that. The doctor had every right to feel that way. If it hadn't been for good ol' Dr. Garr, the old man would have been safely tucked away in prison. Instead, he was dead, and Randy had been sitting there, in Dr. Garr's office, staring right at him, listening with great interest to the details of how Max Lindstedt had met his demise.  
  
Randy had walked away from the doctor back then. And over the years, Garr had probably figured he was safe, that Randy had lost interest in him. As if Randy would lose interest in the man who had seen so many bruises and breaks over so many years, and had done nothing about it. As if Randy could lose interest in the man who helped gloss over a sixteen-year-old kid's murder.  
  
Dr. Garr had been farther down on Randy's list, but, out of necessity, he'd been moved up to the number one spot. Dr. Garr would handle the blood tests, would take care of whatever else needed to be taken care of, because he would have no choice. And if he thought that would make things even, well, that was his problem.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl was taking his turn again. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three hours since Sam had tossed down the last bottle. He sighed.  
  
Sam was sitting in the corner again. Had been since shortly after BA had left. Pinching off something on his arms. Mumbling. Daryl no longer tried to make sense of what he was saying. The only one who understood it was Sam. Now and then, he would look up, as if listening for something, or listening to something. Then he would frown, shake his head, go back to picking at his arms.  
  
Daryl thought about BA. He felt bad about that. About making BA do that. But he hadn't seen any other way. And it had been the right thing to do. For Sam. After BA left, Sam actually let Daryl help him up and onto the bed. He'd only stayed there a few minutes before edging off the bed and back into the corner. But he had allowed Daryl to get close enough to put a light blanket around him, before closing himself off again. At least he still trusted Daryl that much.  
  
So it had shaken BA up. He would cope. Daryl couldn't help but feel that BA - along with Hannibal, Murdock and Frank - bore some responsibility for what had happened. Okay, they'd been in way over their heads; Stockwell shouldn't have sent Sam back to the team so soon. But the team hadn't really tried to work with Sam, either.  
  
Didn't matter now. The guys would have to work out any guilt they felt by themselves. Daryl wasn't about to add them to his list of worries. Randy, now, that was another matter. Randy worried Daryl a great deal. Randy didn't appear to let anyone get close to him, didn't trust anyone, didn't care about anyone. Except Sam. How Sam had broken through and made the connection, Daryl had no idea. But he was going to do his damndest to make sure Randy didn't lose that.  
  
Daryl looked up, startled. The mumbling had stopped. But what was that other noise? He looked over at the corner, where Sam had been sitting. Only Sam wasn't sitting there now. He was flat on the floor, his body in spasms.  
  
*****  
  
"The results will be ready in a few more minutes." Dr. Garr nervously adjusted his tie. "I, uh, I don't have the other things your friend mentioned in his note. Not here, anyway. But I can get them, if necessary." He added the last reassurance hurriedly, seeing the look. "It's not a problem."  
  
"Good. I don't like problems."  
  
Dr. Garr swallowed, nervously. When he had opened the door to his office, located deliberately to assure privacy for his patients, he had never expected to see him standing there. He'd heard the man was dead; had hoped it was true. Instead, he now sat comfortably in the doctor's overstuffed chair, feet on the doctor's antique desk, pistol laying casually in his lap. The doctor swallowed again.  
  
"I'll call on the tests now."  
  
Randy watched him fumble with the telephone, dialing nervously. He smiled. He was getting a lot of satisfaction from this. Imagined how good he'd feel later...  
  
Dr. Garr started speaking, keeping his voice low. Randy tapped the desktop loudly with the barrel of the pistol, frowning. The doctor immediately raised his voice so Randy could hear him clearly. That was better.  
  
Garr hung up the receiver, looking over the notes he'd jotted down. His turn to frown. He looked up at Randy, professional demeanor taking over.  
  
"He should be in a hospital, Gerald. This is serious business." Dr. Garr straightened, became stern. After all, he was a doctor. Regardless of what his 'guest' thought.  
  
"Now that's a surprise. Obviously, there's a reason why he isn't. And why he won't be. That's why I came to you, 'Doctor'." Randy stood suddenly, swept around the desk to stand beside Garr, pistol under the man's chin. "Now that we have the tests back, you're going to gather together, from wherever, all the little pills and shots and medical toys needed to get my friend back on his feet. And then you and I are going to go see him."  
  
"Me? Go with you? But I can't..."  
  
"Oh, yes, you can, Doctor. This is your chance to make amends. To save a life, instead of throwing it away." Randy pressed the gun harder against Garr, pushing his head back. "You save my friend, Dr. Garr, and maybe, just maybe, I'll call us even."  
  
*****  
  
The seizure had lasted only a minute or so. Sam now lay on the floor, in a deep sleep. Daryl sat beside him, fingers on his throat, checking his pulse. Still too fast, but within bounds. He sat back, looking over the sleeping man, shook his head. What a mess. He looked around the room, decided. He stood and went in search of Hannibal, taking one last glance at Sam before stepping out.  
  
He found Hannibal on the porch, with Frankie. He quickly, matter-of-factly, explained what had happened and what he wanted to do. Hannibal took it stoically, although Frankie looked pale.  
  
"C'mon, Frankie. Let's get this done before he wakes up."  
  
It took only a few minutes before Randy's bed had fresh linens on it. Hannibal sent Frankie to get BA from his refuge on the dock. They didn't bother Kurt, who had taken a sleeping bag out under the trees beside the cabin and was sound asleep; or Murdock, who had decided to take a short walk around the woods surrounding the cabin. Daryl, in the meantime, had found some clothes in the dresser; he didn't know if they were Sam's or Randy's and didn't care. They were clean.  
  
Less than twenty minutes after the seizure, Sam's clothes were changed and he was peacefully lying on clean sheets. He was still in a deep slumber, hadn't stirred during any of the activities. Daryl had washed his face, but otherwise left him alone. He wished he could've cleaned him up even more, but it was more important to let him sleep. Hannibal had tossed Sam's old clothes in a plastic bag and dumped them unceremoniously in the trash.  
  
Daryl and Hannibal stood in the doorway, watching him. BA had done his part and left again, still not wanting to be around Sam for too long.  
  
"What caused the seizure?"  
  
"The booze. They call them 'rum fits'."  
  
Hannibal nodded, thought for a few minutes. "How long do you suppose he'll sleep?"  
  
"Hopefully, a few hours. That's typical after a seizure. Then again, he's still dealing with the withdrawal, so who knows? Any sleep he gets is welcome."  
  
"Will there be more?"  
  
"Possibly. I'm not all that concerned about them. It's what could come after that worries me. I hope Randy gets back here soon."  
  
Hannibal said nothing. He watched Sam for another moment, then straightened. He marched into the other bedroom, grabbing several garbage bags on the way. He began stripping the bed and stuffing the linens into the bags. Then he started gathering the empty bottles that still littered the floor and furniture. He worked silently, angrily. When the last of the garbage bags were filled and dumped outside, he began tugging at the soiled mattresses, glaring at the rug as he pulled. When he was finished, nothing was left in the room but the furniture.  
  
He sat, exhausted, on the porch, puffing absently on a cigar, waiting for Randy.


	45. Chapter 45

The bugs. Crawling over him. He was killing them. They were screaming at him, as he squished them, but he didn't listen. And then something happened. His head had...exploded. Strange. But now it was back. And he was back. And the bugs...something about the bugs...  
  
One by one. He'd destroyed them, one by one, not letting the others know, and because he hadn't shown his hand, he'd won. He'd destroyed them all. And now he was free of the bugs.  
  
It was all clear now. Of course.  
  
One by one. That's how he had to do it. That was the only way out of this hell. Those bugs...he hadn't realized it until now, but the bugs had shown him the way. And then he'd be free of them. Free of this place.  
  
He smiled. It turned to a chuckle, and then a laugh. A long, hard laugh. It felt good. So good he didn't care if they heard him. They wouldn't understand anyway.  
  
Not until it was too late...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal wasn't sure what he'd heard at first. Just a low noise from the bedroom where Sam was now. It sounded like...no. That couldn't be right. But then it got louder, and wilder, and Hannibal had to admit what it was. He looked around the living room, knowing they all heard it, too. Saw BA scowl, and head for the door. Frankie had been playing solitaire; he turned pale and started slamming the cards down in furious and haphazard play, eyes never leaving the table. Daryl looked at the door, frowned, checked his watch, silently returned to his vigil at the window.  
  
Murdock's head was up, staring at the closed door, listening intently, listening to every note of runaway laughter. When it finally quieted, after several minutes, he closed his eyes and slowly bowed his head. One hand slowly came up and covered his eyes, holding his head; the other hand clenched into a tight fist. He sat like that, not moving.  
  
Hannibal looked at his own watch, although he'd only checked it a few moments before. It was getting towards dark, their second night here. He was starting to have serious doubts if his team could handle many more days like this one, or if Face could, but he knew there was no way it would be over soon.  
  
He wondered what had caused that damn laughter.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt had been dozing. He hadn't meant to, but Sam had been sleeping so soundly, and there was no other sound in the house; it had been damn hard to stay awake. The sudden laughter coming from the direction of the bed startled him awake, and it took a moment for him to collect himself.  
  
Sam kept laughing, and Kurt crept hurriedly over to the bed. He checked Sam's forehead; still warm, and his heart beat was a bit too fast for comfort.  
  
"Sam? What's up, buddy?"  
  
Sam's eyes opened slowly, and the laughter died down. He still had a smile on his face, but his eyes were glazed, and still seemed unable to settle on anything for more than a second or two. Nevertheless, Sam turned his head and tried to look at Kurt. The smile got a little wobbly, and he closed his eyes.  
  
"Kurt?" His voice was soft, a slight tremor in it.  
  
Kurt's body sagged in relief. Sam hadn't given a truly coherent response since they'd first spoken to him last night. Maybe he was starting to come out of it. That laughter could've just been from a strange dream.  
  
"Yeah, Sam. You feeling better now?"  
  
Sam chuckled again, but low this time, keeping his eyes shut.  
  
"Sam?" Kurt's worries started returning. This wasn't really normal behavior.  
  
"Don't worry..." Sam reached out, found and grabbed Kurt's arm, tight. He whispered, "I'll take you with me...not like them...no, not like them...one by one..."  
  
He kept laughing, softly, for a long time, holding Kurt's arm.  
  
*****  
  
"He's got everything on your list and then some, Daryl. I watched, made sure he didn't switch anything, but check it anyway. Nothing goes into Sam unless you know exactly what it is."  
  
Daryl nodded, still feeling confused. He looked over at the stranger Randy had practically dragged into the cabin. The man looked like he was ready for some medication himself. He kept glancing at Randy as if waiting to be shot.  
  
"Okay, doc, you go with Daryl. You give him any problems, you and I will be talking. Got it?"  
  
The man nodded and meekly followed behind Daryl. Randy watched the door close, then turned to face a very irate Colonel.  
  
"Who is that guy, Randy? I know damn well he didn't volunteer to come and help us out. What the hell are you doing? I want some answers, now!"  
  
Randy looked calm and cool. "If you'll shut up long enough, I'll tell you." Ignoring the angry Hannibal, the even angrier BA, and a shocked Frankie, Randy went into the kitchen and pulled a can of pop from the refrigerator. He leaned insolently against the door frame and sipped slowly before continuing. "'That guy' is Dr. Garr, small town practitioner. I've known him for many, many years." Randy looked at Hannibal, daring him to say anything. Hannibal wisely kept quiet, beginning to understand. "Garr did the blood tests Daryl wanted, and I figured it would be just as well to have a doctor on hand if we're going to be giving Sam a bunch of medications. And no, he didn't volunteer to come. I had to remind him that he owes me. Big time."  
  
"You brought a doctor that you obviously don't trust?" Murdock only mildly curious. At least he was reacting to something. He'd been staring out of the window ever since Sam's last outburst, not saying a word to anyone.  
  
"Garr is a coward. Coward's tend to do things on impulse, rather than from really thinking things through. As long as I remind him occasionally of his obligations to me, there's no problem. I trust his common sense."  
  
Hannibal was thinking it was more Garr's sense of self-preservation than his common sense that should be trusted, but he kept his own counsel. He didn't like this, not one bit, but considering the seizure and how Sam seemed to be going downhill, mentally, he had to accept the wisdom of having a real doctor on hand. Seeing the others weren't quite so willing to let the matter drop, he swiftly turned the conversation.  
  
"Sam had a seizure while you were gone."  
  
"What?" The pop can slammed to the floor. The pop fizzed and spread over the linoleum, unheeded.  
  
"It didn't last long, but..."  
  
"Is he all right?"  
  
"Daryl says he is. It's not unusual. And at least he got some sleep afterward."  
  
"But he did wake up? And you're sure he's okay?"  
  
Hannibal knew Randy wanted to rush in to his friend, rather than following Daryl's orders, and decided it would be better, for the moment, not to tell him about Sam's laughing episode. Hannibal had already chalked it off to just one more weird reaction, nothing to worry about any more than all the rest of the shit that was happening.  
  
"Yeah, he woke up and he's fine. Well..."  
  
"I know what you mean."  
  
Kurt stepped out just then, and Hannibal welcomed the interruption. He would have to take Randy aside later and 'discuss' his kidnapping of the doctor. They didn't need any more complications, and Hannibal had a feeling the doctor was going to be more trouble than he was worth.  
  
*****  
  
As soon as the door closed, Garr practically pounced on Daryl.  
  
"You have to help me! That man is dangerous! He kidnapped me! He..." Garr noticed the other two men in the room just then. Kurt was rising from the chair by the bed, startled at the intrusion of this stranger. Sam sat up abruptly, trying to focus on the source of the panicky voice, head swimming at the sudden movement.  
  
Suspicion and anger replaced Garr's fear. "Who are you people, anyway? What the hell is going on here? I demand you release me, right now!"  
  
"Another one...another one...they got another one..." Sam was getting more and more excited, smirking as he tried to climb off the bed.  
  
"Sam, take it easy." Kurt hurriedly reached across, grabbing Sam before he fell off the bed. Sam held on to his shoulders, trying to focus on the stranger, snickering quietly.  
  
Daryl turned back to Garr, glaring. "Keep quiet! I don't know anything about a kidnapping, but you're a doctor and this man needs help."  
  
Garr looked over at Sam, who was still staring at him, but the laughter was gone. He could've sworn the man was looking at him like a dog would a piece of meat. Were they all mad?  
  
Suddenly he remembered why he was here - the blood tests, and the drugs listed on the note. So this was the guy...  
  
"He's the drunk I'm supposed to treat?"  
  
Daryl could've slugged him. "He's your patient. Now start acting like a doctor!"  
  
Garr snapped to attention. No one, especially these thugs, spoke to him like that. They wanted a doctor, by God, they'd get one.  
  
"All right. The man's blood work came back a disaster. His electrolytes are abysmal. I'm going to have to insert an IV, try and get that back in balance."  
  
Kurt and Daryl looked at each other, dismayed. An IV? In Sam? Now?  
  
Kurt sighed. "We can try it, I guess." He really didn't want BA involved again so soon, but wasn't at all sure they would have any success without him.  
  
Gently extricating himself from Sam, Kurt stepped over to Daryl and Garr. Sam slid back to rest against the headboard, grinning at the doctor.  
  
"Gotcha..." He laughed, broke off abruptly and stared intently, his eyes still unable to settle on their target. Garr swallowed hard.  
  
"Okay, doc, this is the picture. He's going through alcohol withdrawal, but he's also got some...mental problems. You'll have to sedate him; he won't keep a line in otherwise. Guaranteed. Basically, we're going to have to take this whole thing slow and easy, try not to set him off.."  
  
"Looks like we're already too late for that," Garr noted, wryly. "Or is he always like this?"  
  
"It just started. He had a seizure and then..."  
  
"He's seized? How long ago?"  
  
"A little over three hours ago."  
  
Garr nodded grimly, began to gather his equipment. He would have to add a little to the cocktail he'd already prepared. He wanted to stave off further fits if at all possible.  
  
Daryl walked over to the bed, sat so he blocked Sam's view of Garr. Sam immediately lost interest, although the smile stayed on his face. He started talking, low and nearly inaudible. Daryl ignored it. He needed Sam's attention.  
  
"Sam, we have to do something that might hurt a little, okay?"  
  
"One by one...one after another..."  
  
"Sam." Daryl spoke a little louder, a little firmer. Sam looked at him, startled.  
  
"We have to give you some medicine, Sam. The doctor is going to poke a tiny hole in your arm, and give you the medicine that way. Okay?"  
  
The bugs had tried to warn him. He hadn't listened. He'd killed them. He should have listened.  
  
"No."  
  
"Sam, we don't have a choice, okay?"  
  
"NO!" Angry, Sam scrambled for the other side of the bed, fell off the side onto the floor. Awkwardly tried to climb under the bed.  
  
"Sam, wait, please..."  
  
"I'll get BA," Kurt whispered to Daryl, who nodded, unhappy. He could only hope the newest assault wouldn't wreak further havoc on Sam.


	46. Chapter 46

"Garr giving you problems, Kurt?" Randy's voice was sharp, expectant.  
  
"No, no, he's cooperating, Randy. Uh, Hannibal, where's BA?"  
  
Hannibal cringed. "Not again..."  
  
"I'm afraid so, Colonel. We have to put in an IV. Daryl tried to reason with him, but Sam went ballistic." Kurt didn't tell him Sam was now hiding under the bed. "We're going to have to sedate him, but we have to get the damn thing in, first."  
  
Hannibal shook his head. He wasn't sure BA would agree to a second act. Hannibal wasn't sure he wanted to ask it of him.  
  
"Uh, maybe I could try, Hannibal."  
  
Murdock's voice was low, hesitant. Hannibal looked over at him, watched him twisting the zipper of his jacket. Remembered BA's warning.  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea, Murdock. Sam's not..."  
  
"I can handle it, Hannibal. Remember? I'm sane now." He flashed Hannibal a small smile. "I want to help, okay? I could always talk Face into doing stuff he didn't want to. Maybe Sam's not that much different."  
  
They looked over at Kurt, who shrugged. He didn't care who the Colonel sent in, as long as someone went. Daryl may already have blown the trust thing with Sam; he didn't want the whole thing to go down the crapper.  
  
"All right, Murdock. Just...be careful, okay?"  
  
"You got it, Colonel." Murdock snapped off a salute. Somehow it wasn't as reassuring as it was intended.  
  
*****  
  
It had come sooner than expected. From a different quarter. Hadn't anticipated that. Stupid. Idiot. Too damn cocky. Hadn't adequately considered the danger presented by the reinforcements. Forced to retreat. Not hide. He didn't hide from danger. He didn't hide. But he had to have time. Time to think. Time to plan. Then he would know how to get rid of this one. This one.  
  
Then the next.  
  
One by one.  
  
One by one.  
  
Shook his head. Not now. Have to think. Plan. Looked at the underside of the bed. Thick wires stretched across, holding the mattress up. Wire. Weapon. Yes. Work one loose...damn. Too thick. Too thick. Or he was too weak. Too weak...too thick...too...two...two...one...one...one by one...  
  
Concentrate! Damn. Damn. Looked around. A face. A face peering at him. Go away. Go. Now. He kicked out at the face. Good. Gone. Gone. One down. One to go. One on one. Two for one. Tie one on. Number one. One by one.  
  
One by one.  
  
One by one...  
  
*****  
  
Murdock glanced swiftly, apprehensively, around the room, expecting to see Sam cringing in some corner, or holding them off with a table lamp, or...something. All he saw were Daryl, by the bed, and the doctor, waiting nervously by the dresser.  
  
Daryl saw his confusion, stepped quickly over.  
  
"Murdock? Where's BA?"  
  
"I thought I'd try to talk to him. BA looked pretty shook up after the last time, and...well, Face is my best friend, after all."  
  
"But this isn't..."  
  
"Yeah, I know, I know." Murdock waved his arm dismissively. "But I gotta think Face is in there somewhere, and he might listen to me. It won't hurt to try, right?"  
  
Daryl gave him a doubtful look, then shrugged. "No, I guess it won't. He's under the bed."  
  
"Under the bed?" For an insane second, Murdock wanted to laugh. "What's he doing under the bed?"  
  
"He didn't want the IV. Fell out of bed trying to get away, and crawled under there. I tried to talk him out, but he just tried to kick me, so..."  
  
"Hmm. Okay. Not a problem." Murdock didn't bother to explain that he was familiar with this tactic. He'd used it himself on occasion, when the nurses had gotten too attentive for his frame of mind at that particular time. It always worked. People got tired of practically standing on their heads trying to talk to him. Always overlooked the obvious. He stepped carefully over to the bed, and lay down on his stomach next to it. Resting the side of his head on his arms, he looked at the occupant underneath.  
  
"Hey, Sam."  
  
Sam was on his back, arms at his sides, eyes closed. His grimy hair was in disarray, partially covering his face. He was whispering to himself and paid no attention to Murdock. Murdock stifled the shock of pity he felt.  
  
"Sam, it's me. Do you remember me?"  
  
The whispering stopped. The head turned in his direction. Mindful of Daryl's warning about being kicked, Murdock kept talking, soft, calm, trying to keep Sam's attention without irritating him.  
  
"This was a smart move, Sam. Nobody can reach you under there, can they? Caught 'em with their pants down there, buddy." Murdock smiled at him.  
  
Sam just stared at him.  
  
"Kinda crowded out here, isn't it? All these people standing around. Makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, with so many people waiting for you to come out. You don't like that, do you?"  
  
Silence from under the bed, but Murdock thought he saw some puzzlement showing.  
  
"Would you like them to go away, Sam? Give you some space to think?" Murdock's hands were starting to go to sleep from the weight of his head, but he didn't move. "I can make them go away, if you want me to."  
  
Murdock barely saw the slight nod.  
  
"Okay. I'll have them go away."  
  
"No. No...just...him..."  
  
"Him? Daryl?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
"NO."  
  
"The doctor? You want him to go away?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Okay." Murdock kept looking at Sam, but spoke to the room. "Doctor, can you go in the other room please?"  
  
Garr looked uncertainly at the other two men. Kurt nodded, motioned toward the door. Shaking his head, the doctor left the room, the door shutting firmly behind him.  
  
"That better, Sam?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Do you feel like coming out now, Sam?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"You'll be safe, Sam. I won't let anyone come near you. Anyone does, I'll make them leave, like I did the doctor. Okay?"  
  
Sam nodded. Murdock hesitated, the slowly wriggled away from the bed, but stayed on his stomach. Sam started inching his way out. A few moments later, he was beside the bed, holding onto the frame. Murdock could see Sam was still unsure. Slowly he got to his knees, reached out his hand.  
  
"C'mon, Sam. It's okay."  
  
Sam looked at Murdock for a long minute, then slowly reached out his hand.  
  
*****  
  
Sam heard the new voice. Familiar...Ignore it.  
  
One by one...  
  
The voice kept talking. He looked over, irritated.  
  
"This was a smart move, Sam. Nobody can reach you under there, can they? Caught 'em with their pants down there, buddy."  
  
What kind of bullshit was that? Of course it was smart. Sam was smart. Did this guy really think he was fooled?  
  
"Kinda crowded out here, isn't it? All these people standing around. Makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, with so many people waiting for you to come out. You don't like that, do you?"  
  
Of course he didn't like it. That's why he was under the fucking bed. Idiot.  
  
"Would you like them to go away, Sam? Give you some space to think? I can make them go away, if you want me to."  
  
Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Get rid of the only allies Sam had. But then there was that other guy. The one they called the doctor. He could go. Okay. See if this guy is for real. He nodded.  
  
"Okay. I'll have them go away."  
  
Not all of them, you jerk. "No. No...just...him..."  
  
"Him? Daryl?"  
  
"No." No way.  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
"NO." God, no. He was the stronger of the two.  
  
"The doctor? You want him to go away?"  
  
Finally. He nodded, disgusted with having to deal with this guy.  
  
"Okay. Doctor, can you go in the other room please?"  
  
A moment's silence, then Sam watched the doctor's legs go out of the room. Heard the door shut. Good. Now he was set.  
  
"That better, Sam?"  
  
"Yeah." You better believe it, bud.  
  
"Do you feel like coming out now, Sam?"  
  
Sam hesitated. He still wasn't sure how to deal with Big Mouth.  
  
"You'll be safe, Sam. I won't let anyone come near you. Anyone does, I'll make them leave, like I did the doctor. Okay?"  
  
Yeah, you and whose army? No way the others were leaving. They were Sam's army. His men. But it's time to come out. Time to take care of business.  
  
One by one. He nodded, waited until the guy had moved away from the bed, then started moving cautiously out from under the bed. He stopped when he was almost all the way out, held onto the frame, in case the guy made a move and he'd have to scoot back under.  
  
The man got up on his knees. Knew it. Getting ready. Sam watched as the man put out his hand.  
  
"C'mon, Sam. It's okay."  
  
Sam cautiously reached out his hand. He grasped the other, allowed the man to help him up. His legs felt shaky, but he forced himself to stand. Pretended to stumble a bit, getting close to the window. Perfect. He felt the energy surge. About time...  
  
The guy was smiling at him. Thought he'd won, did he?  
  
It took only seconds. Still holding the other man's hand, Sam wrenched his arm up and around the guy's throat, jerking the man around in front of him. His other hand smashed through the glass in the window, grabbed and broke off a large shard, held it just under the guy's ear, by his jaw.  
  
One by one. And you're the first, guy...


	47. Chapter 47

"What are you doing?"  
  
"I was thrown out. I'm assuming if they ever get this guy under restraint, they'll call me back in." Dr. Garr looked defensively at Randy's scowl. "It wasn't my idea, Gerald."  
  
"Just sit down and shut up, then." Randy glanced over at Hannibal and BA. Hannibal hadn't reacted to the name; BA looked suspicious. Frankie looked openly puzzled.  
  
"Gerald?"  
  
"Never mind, Frankie." Hannibal wanted to nip that in the bud. Just looking at Randy, he knew he couldn't deal with questions along those lines right now. Frankie still looked puzzled, but Hannibal's tone of voice left no room for discussion.  
  
Garr was looking at Randy, too. He didn't understand one bit of this. Who were these people? Obviously they were in league with Gerald, and that did nothing to ease his fears. But what were they doing here? Before he knew about these people, he was afraid Gerald had come back specifically for him. But all of them? Were they actually here because of the drunk? But why on earth would they keep someone like that with them? From all Garr knew of Gerald, there's no way he'd put up with a drunk, let alone a mental case. No, Gerald was too much like his grandfather to keep someone like that around.  
  
Noting that Randy was still glaring at him, he moved into the living room and sat in the overstuffed chair. For some reason, he was controlling his temper around these men, and Garr had no intention of pushing that control. He sat still, staring at his hands.  
  
"How is he?"  
  
Garr looked up at the older man. He seemed used to giving orders and having them obeyed; what was his relationship to Gerald? It was too complicated for him; he was tired, confused and tense.  
  
"He's psychotic and going through the DT's. How do you expect him to be?"  
  
BA's hand caught Randy's wrist as the fist flew toward Garr's face. Randy was livid, BA surprisingly calm.  
  
"He ain't worth it, man. And we're gonna need him awake."  
  
Randy stared at BA for another second, then looked up to the ceiling. His shoulders sagged, and he nodded. BA released his arm, and Randy turned to go into the kitchen.  
  
That was when they heard the glass breaking.  
  
*****  
  
"Lock the door!"  
  
Kurt stood, stricken. Blood was streaming down Sam's arm, but he seemed totally unaware of it. How in God's name had Sam managed this shit? He could barely get a coherent word out and yet...  
  
"NOW!"  
  
He jumped, saw the glass press against Murdock's neck even harder. No time to argue. He took three quick steps to the door and flipped the lock. Sam relaxed slightly. Grinned at them. The grin got larger as they heard Hannibal on the other side. His voice was calm but urgent, demanding to know if everything was okay. The last thing Kurt wanted right now was someone breaking down the door. Murdock would end up shish-kabob.  
  
"Everything's fine, Colonel. Just a little accident." He forced his voice to be reassuring. He wished he could think of something to say to alert the men outside without Sam noticing, but his mind was a blank.  
  
"Are you sure, Kurt?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure. We're just peachy."  
  
Hannibal wasn't stupid; neither was Randy. Surely they would catch irony in his voice.  
  
"Peachy. Peachy. I like that." Sam chuckled. "We're just peachy." He looked at Murdock. "Are you just peachy, bud? I'm feeling pretty peachy." He grinned wildly, suddenly frowned. "You didn't answer, bud. Are you just peachy or not?" The glass slid a little, a tiny rivulet of blood seeping down Murdock's neck.  
  
"Sure, Sam. I'm just peachy." Murdock found it hard to talk with his jaw in jeopardy every time he moved, but...  
  
"Good!" He looked over at Kurt, then Daryl. "We're all peachy. Right?"  
  
The two men nodded.  
  
Sam smiled, satisfied.  
  
"Uh, Sam?" Daryl moved just a little closer, not sure at this point if Sam considered him friend or foe.  
  
"Yeah?" He was delicately tracing Murdock's jaw line with the glass, forming a perfect red outline. The new blood was mixing with the pilot's sweat, forming little droplets.  
  
"What's your plan?"  
  
"Oh." Sam stopped his tracing, looked thoughtful. "Oh! I'm going to kill him, and then we'll bring the others in one by one and..." He stopped, frowned again. "One by one...like the bugs...I shouldn't have killed them. I should've listened to them. They tried to warn me." His shoulders sagged just a bit. "They warned me and I killed them."  
  
"You feel bad about killing the bugs, Sam?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"You don't like killing, do you, Sam?"  
  
"No..." He looked up, suspicious. "But this isn't a bug." He nudged Murdock's chin with the glass.  
  
"No, he's a man. Not a bug. More important than a bug."  
  
"No. He's not a man. He's the enemy. You kill the enemy. Before they kill you." He glared at Murdock. "Right, muchacho?"  
  
Murdock's eyes went wide. He thought quickly, decided he was probably going to die anyway...  
  
"The Team doesn't kill, Face. You know that."  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal stepped away from the door. He looked over at Randy, who looked anything but reassured.  
  
"Peachy?"  
  
"There's something wrong in there." Randy didn't hesitate, but headed immediately for the back door. "BA, come with me. Quick."  
  
After an immediate nod from Hannibal, BA followed Randy outside. They rounded the corner of the cabin, and Randy led the way to a back window. They stopped a few feet from it, seeing immediately the glass scattered on the ground. Randy motioned to BA to stay put, and carefully edged up to the broken window, stepping carefully around the glass.  
  
He could hear the voices from inside, but couldn't make out the words. He could tell that Sam was close to the window, that was all. He bit his lower lip, concentrating. He moved further back from the window, trying to come parallel to it. When Sam's back came into view, he stopped. Sam had someone standing in front of him, and it was obvious he was being held there. He caught sight of the back of the man's jacket, saw the blood on the window, and felt ill.  
  
This was a nightmare.  
  
Slowly, he stepped back to BA, explained what he had seen.  
  
"He's maybe a foot and a half, two feet from the window. I don't know if he's got a weapon of any kind, but there had to be a reason he broke that window. Any chance you could go through there and get to him before he could react?"  
  
BA shook his head, an angry glint in his eye. "No way. He couldn't'a taken Murdock unless he was on top of things."  
  
"How the hell...damn it. Okay. You go back and tell Hannibal what's going on, and you guys get ready to come in."  
  
"Come in when?"  
  
"You'll know."  
  
Without waiting for a response, Randy started back into the woods, again moving to a position parallel to the window, with a clear view of Sam and Murdock. BA watched for a moment before heading back around the corner of the cabin. He had no idea what Randy had in mind; he just hoped everyone would come out of this in one piece.  
  
*****  
  
Sam stood still. Dead still. His head was buzzing, loudly. It hurt. What was going on? He looked around, puzzled. Saw Kurt, then Daryl. Staring at him. Pale.  
  
What was going on?  
  
He suddenly realized he was holding on to someone. He looked, surprised. He had his arm around the guy's throat. Had a large piece of glass shoved up against his neck. There was blood, all over. His hand, his arm, the guy's face...  
  
Face.  
  
The buzzing in his head got louder. He could feel his body starting to tremble, badly. His hand, holding the glass, shook, and more blood spurted from the guy's cheek.  
  
Why did they keep bringing Face into it? Why couldn't they let the guy die and be done with it? Why?  
  
He felt a spurt of anger, and then it died away. He was so tired. What was he doing here? What did it matter if he killed this guy or not? He couldn't kill them all. They would win. Their kind always did. No matter how much he tried, there were always more of them out there. The Stockwell's, the Smith's. They ran the world. Even Randy had accepted it...  
  
His arm moved slowly away from his victim's neck, the buzzing in his head getting louder and louder.  
  
*****  
  
Randy stood perfectly still, watching, calculating. He noted, angrily, that his hand shook as he drew the Beretta from his belt.  
  
He didn't want to do this. God, he did not want to do this. He was afraid. Afraid that his aim would be off. It had to be just right, or Murdock was dead meat. Randy would not have a second chance. He knew that. He knew Sam would not allow that.  
  
One shot.  
  
That's all he would have. Period.  
  
Randy took several deep breaths, trying to relax, knowing he was running out of time. He closed his eyes, tightly. If he knew any prayers, he would have said one, but all he could do was offer up a silent, "Please..."  
  
He opened his eyes, raised the pistol, holding it carefully in both hands. Looked at the back of Sam's head. Swallowed. Relaxed. Pistols were harder to aim accurately. He had to be careful. He had to do this right.  
  
He looked at his friend's head one more time. Aimed. Slowly pulled the trigger.


	48. Chapter 48

The scissors sliced neatly through the last strands of hair. He dropped the remnant into the trash, laid the scissors down softly on the nightstand. He sighed and arched his back, getting the kinks out. He tilted his head, looking critically at the job. It was much shorter than normal, about two inches all around, but it would do. Much better than it had been. It had taken a long time to cut all that hair, carefully adjusting the head so he could do a proper job, but it was the least he could do.  
  
Murdock sighed again, rubbed his eyes, hard. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the razor.  
  
*****  
  
He fingered the material. He didn't know anything about this kind of stuff, but it felt real soft. That was good. The color was nice, too, a light gray-blue. It just looked like something he would wear.  
  
"Hey, Frankie, this look okay?"  
  
"Yeah, sure, BA. I mean, it doesn't really matter that much, does it? Not like he's gonna know..."  
  
"Hey, it's important to Murdock. Wants him to look good."  
  
"Okay, BA. It's good. It suits him, man."  
  
BA nodded, satisfied.  
  
*****  
  
He gently wiped the last of the shaving cream from the cheek. Again, looked critically at his handiwork. Much better. Now it looked like him. Pretty much, anyway. It had been hard to see, with the window boarded up and just the light from the table lamp. But he'd done okay. He reached over to the basin of warm water, picked up the washcloth and wrung it out carefully. Began washing the face.  
  
*****  
  
He sat on the bench in the shed, swinging the hammer slowly between his fingers. He was so tired. Angry. Disgusted.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, you know."  
  
"I let down my guard. I should've been watching him closer."  
  
"No one could've seen that coming. No one."  
  
"Yeah." He laid the hammer in the toolbox, closed the lid. Together, he and Kurt put away the remaining lumber. Daryl carefully latched the shed door as they left.  
  
*****  
  
He had to stop. The water in the basin was a deep pink now. He needed to change that. Get fresh. It had been hard, washing all the blood away. Dried blood. He didn't want to scrub. So he'd had to go over it and over it, gently, almost easing it off the chest and stomach. The back. And the water in the basin got pinker and darker...  
  
He needed to change that now.  
  
*****  
  
He sat on the dock, watching the waves slap against the pilings. Over and over again. Listened to the sound. Soft. Soothing. Calming.  
  
It had been Hannibal who had come after him, there in the trees. Sitting in the spot where he'd fired from. Just sitting. Hannibal had tried to get him to go into the cabin, but he wouldn't. Couldn't talk, couldn't say 'no', just wouldn't go through the door. Wouldn't even go on the porch. He couldn't.  
  
So he found himself sitting on the dock, not really thinking. Just seeing it. Over and over. Just like the waves lapping against the dock.  
  
Over and over...  
  
*****  
  
Murdock tried again, but gave up. He couldn't do this by himself. He knew it didn't really matter, he couldn't feel anything anyway, but he didn't want to be too rough, just the same. The blood on the jeans had dried and they were stiff and he just couldn't...  
  
He looked over at the man across the room, who had been watching all this time. Silently. He appealed to him, silently. Help.  
  
The man nodded, stood and walked slowly over. Together, they managed to remove the bloody jeans. Murdock once again reached for the washcloth, wrung it out carefully.  
  
So much blood. It would take a long time to clean off.  
  
He worried that it would never come off. Not really...  
  
*****  
  
He carried the clothing out, trying not to think about his blood on them. His blood. They'd heard the shot, and BA had broken down the door. Such chaos in that room. Blood, all over Murdock's face and neck. All over him. Laying on the floor. A wreck of a man.  
  
He opened the back door, placed the bloody jeans almost reverently in the trash. It wasn't right. It shouldn't have happened like this. None of it.  
  
He looked out at the man on the dock. Another casualty. Another victim. Again. Could Hannibal still consider him salvageable? Or had this pushed him too far away?  
  
He returned to the bedroom. Murdock was still cleaning him up. Hannibal didn't say anything, moved quietly back to the chair and sat there, watching. Murdock needed to do this, needed to make amends. Not that there had been any choice. One had only to look at the wounds on Murdock's face and neck to see that. They all knew there'd been no choice.  
  
Didn't make it any easier.  
  
So Hannibal sat in the chair, quiet. So Murdock could do what he needed to do. So Murdock wouldn't be alone.  
  
*****  
  
Frankie took the clothes into the cabin. BA went down to the dock. Stood near Randy, not saying anything at first.  
  
"Get everything okay?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Yeah." BA looked at the man sitting there, knowing his thoughts. "Nothin you coulda done different."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Wasn't your fault he moved. It'd been okay otherwise."  
  
"But it's not okay now, is it?"  
  
BA sighed. There was nothing he could say to that.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal hadn't waited to be asked this time. When Frankie handed him the packages, he'd just taken the clothes out and gone over to the bed. Murdock had finished a few minutes before, and had been sitting, exhausted, by the bed. Together, the two men got him dressed.  
  
When they were finished, he looked almost normal. His eyes and mouth slightly open, as if he were just waking up. But of course, he wasn't. The sweatshirt was only loosely wrapped around his left shoulder, adjusted carefully so as not to disturb the bandages covering the shoulder. Murdock gently pulled the blanket up over him, leaving the right arm out, because of the IV.  
  
"Feel better now, Murdock?"  
  
"No, but I hope he does. That doctor better know what he's doing."  
  
Hannibal nodded. If anything happened now, Dr. Garr wouldn't stand a chance in hell.


	49. Chapter 49

"Mama?"  
  
"I'm here."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Here."  
  
"Where? I can't see you."  
  
"That's okay. I'm still here. Your father, too."  
  
"Why can't I see you any more?"  
  
"You don't have to, honey. Just know that we're here. We'll come back for you, one day."  
  
"I want you here. I want to see you."  
  
"Some day. Some day, soon."  
  
"Come back! Please! Come back!" He started running after the voice, running and running...  
  
*****  
  
Dr. Garr shook his head.  
  
"So?" Randy was standing next to him, and he was not happy.  
  
"I'll have to bring the sedation back up."  
  
"How long is this going to go on, Doc?" Hannibal watched Sam. For the last couple of hours, Sam's hands had been twitching almost constantly; his head would jerk suddenly to the side, then back. Occasionally they could make out a slurred word or two.  
  
"It could take another week, maybe two. It's just the nature of the beast. On a more positive note, his blood tests came back at near normal levels, and the shoulder is healing nicely. And that's probably due to his being sedated, not moving it around." The doctor looked at both men. "Look, if we don't keep him under, he's going to go right back to what he was before. You don't want that, do you?"  
  
Randy just looked angrily away. Hannibal shook his head.  
  
"We'll keep trying to reduce the sedation, monitor his reaction to it. When I'm convinced that the withdrawal is over, then we'll bring him completely back." He frowned down at the man in the bed. "What you do after that is up to you."  
  
Dr. Garr left the room, the metal door swishing closed behind him. Hannibal sat down, next to the bed, looked at the equipment arranged around it. Another week, maybe two. Then what? Who would come out of it, in the end? Sam? Or Face? Or nobody at all?  
  
*****  
  
"I don't like it. What about the nurses? They're already talking about it. Wondering why the cops aren't more involved."  
  
"Kurt and Daryl are dealin with that. Everbody thinks they're Feds."  
  
"I still don't like it. I don't trust Garr."  
  
"He ain't gonna say anythin to anybody. He's too scared of Randy."  
  
"That's another thing. Why is he so scared of him? What's that all about?"  
  
"Hannibal knows what's goin on there. He don't seem worried about it."  
  
"I..."  
  
"I know. You still don't like it. Don't matter. Long as Stockwell don't find out, we're okay."  
  
Murdock sighed. They had moved Face to the local hospital the day after the shooting. Over the next few days, they had spread rumors about a big FBI case. Witness protection, the whole spiel. The guy in the grocery store had added credence to it, with his tales of hit men and secret agents. Kurt talked to the local authorities. Murdock didn't know what cock and bull story he'd given them, but it seemed to have worked.  
  
Seemed to. For now.  
  
Murdock still didn't like the fact that so many people knew they were here. Stockwell had feelers out all over the place. It wouldn't take long.  
  
They had to get Face out of here. The sooner, the better.  
  
*****  
  
Dr. Garr hurried to his office. He desperately needed some time alone. Time away from Gerald and his cronies.  
  
His secretary handed him a stack of memos as he passed into his office. On top was a phone message. He glanced at it, did a double-take. Long distance. Frowned. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled the phone book over, looked up the area code.  
  
Virginia.  
  
*****  
  
Randy stood by the window, watching the meanderings in the parking lot. He was feeling closed in. Something told him it was time to move. Time to get out. That sixth sense that had served him so well over the years. He looked over to the bed.  
  
That was the only thing holding him here. Every instinct in him said to leave, but he couldn't, wouldn't, walk out on Sam. Not until he knew if Sam was coming back, anyway. If he did, then the two of them would go to Europe. Spain. Greece. Didn't matter where. As long as they got away.  
  
He didn't think about Sam not coming back. Time enough for that if it happened.  
  
*****  
  
"Stockwell's probably having kittens by now."  
  
"Probably."  
  
"We're going to have to report back to him sometime, Kurt. You know that."  
  
Kurt just nodded. The idea of returning to the organization, to Stockwell, just didn't appeal to him any more. He'd hated the idea enough after Redondo. Now, it made him feel sick. Trapped.  
  
Daryl watched him. He knew what was going on in that mind of his. He'd seen it coming for some time now. This thing with Randy and Sam had just brought it to a head. He knew Kurt would be cutting his ties with Stockwell. The question was, would Daryl go along?  
  
So much had changed since California. They still worked as a team, but it was no longer just surveillance. That was Clifton's doing. The man had influence. Too much influence. Kurt and Daryl had had to take on jobs they abhorred. Had to. California held over their heads. Randy and Sam and everything that had happened. The things Kurt and Daryl had done. And each new job added to the list of things Stockwell could use to keep them in line.  
  
Daryl sighed. Stockwell would not be happy about this last fiasco. They were supposed to report as soon as they found Peck. It hadn't occurred to either of them to actually do that. The moment they'd learned of the new assignment, it had just been taken for granted that they would do whatever was necessary to make sure their quarry was safe.  
  
Well, he was, more or less. He was being taken care of, and he'd have Smith between him and Stockwell when he got out of here. Whether things between Sam and the team would work out or not, he hadn't a clue. And there was always Randy to consider. Would he let Sam go that easily? Would Sam let go, accept reality, let Face come back and stay? And if he did, what would Randy do?  
  
Daryl looked back at Kurt, who was still frowning, staring off into space.  
  
What would any of them do now?  
  
*****  
  
"It's just routine, Dr. Garr. There's no reason to believe that our man is even in your area, but we like to let hospitals and private doctors know, just in case. We're already working with the local authorities, of course."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Just a word of caution, Dr. This man is dangerous, and should be treated with extreme caution, regardless of any possible injuries he might have sustained. If he should show up, treat him as you would any other patient, but call us immediately. We know how to deal with him."  
  
"Certainly."  
  
The connection was cut, and Dr. Garr sat, holding the receiver, thinking hard. On the one hand, it was obviously his opportunity to get rid of Gerald, once and for all. On the other, who knew what he might tell the authorities. At the time Gerald's brother had died, Garr had been under no requirement to report anything. That didn't necessarily absolve him legally. And he hadn't reported anything that happened to Gerald himself after that, law or not. Max Lindstedt was just too powerful in the area. Too many 'friends', if one could call them that.  
  
Maybe Gerald wouldn't say anything at all. After all, he was not completely innocent. Garr knew he'd had some hand in his grandfather's death. He just couldn't prove it. And Gerald knew that. He could open up that whole can of worms and walk away, the innocent victim.  
  
Damn him. Damn that whole family...  
  
*****  
  
"We might have a problem."  
  
"Might? That's all we've had lately, Randy." Hannibal glanced over at Sam. Satisfied he was remaining back in the depths of sedation, he sat back in the chair and waited for Randy to explain.  
  
"Garr got a phone call last night. From Virginia."  
  
Hannibal straightened. "Stockwell? How'd he find us?"  
  
"I don't think they found us. Not yet. It was Stockwell's people, though. Putting out the word. Garr didn't say anything last night to them, but I don't know how long he'll hold out on them."  
  
"You listened in?"  
  
"No, I just have a trace on his phone. But if he'd said anything at all, this place would've been covered with Ables long before now. But he's got to be thinking about it."  
  
"Well, he's been thinking about it ever since you showed up at his door."  
  
"But he didn't have anyone to go to until now. He had nothing on me, other than kidnapping. Which could easily be explained as panic at having a friend seriously injured."  
  
"And now, he not only doesn't have to prove anything, he has people just waiting to come and take you off his hands."  
  
"Versus my making what he did for my grandfather public."  
  
"Hmm. Yes, there's that. Which is why he didn't jump at the chance last night. He needed to think things over. What, he could lose his license? Probably not do any jail time. Not after all this time. So he's thinking if his license is worth getting rid of you."  
  
"And for how long. He'd also have to decide how much confidence he has in Stockwell making it a permanent removal."  
  
The two men sat, silent. Thinking.  
  
"We have to move. Tomorrow at the latest."  
  
"That's what I was figuring. But where?"  
  
"Maggie would help us out, but she's too obvious. Especially after the last time. Stockwell probably already has her under surveillance."  
  
"We could work around that. Take her someplace."  
  
Hannibal nodded. "Easily. So the only question is where."  
  
"I might be able to help you with that."  
  
The two men swung around, startled. Daryl had come into the room completely unknown to them. He smiled, apologetically.  
  
"Habit. Sorry, guys. But like I said, I might be able to help."  
  
"Daryl, I appreciate it, but we've gotten you guys in enough trouble already."  
  
"Well, Kurt and I were sorta planning on severing ties with the General anyway. Now's as good a time as any."  
  
Randy and Hannibal looked at each other, then back to Daryl.  
  
"Okay. Let's hear it."


	50. Chapter 50

Maggie closed the door tightly, then stole a quick look around. She hadn't seen anyone, but she knew there had to be someone. Those clicks had been back on her telephone line, and she had seen a couple of strange cars in town the last couple of weeks. Sighing with the knowledge that there was nothing she could do about it anyway, she placed her small suitcase to the car and pulled out of the driveway.  
  
The call had come late last night. It had spooked her at first, being a stranger's voice, but they knew the code word. She and Hannibal arranged a new word each time, and he would never give that out to someone he didn't trust implicitly. And somehow, she thought she recognized that voice, from somewhere.  
  
The caller had told her to say hi to Hank, so she knew there would be a more detailed message waiting for her at his office. He really didn't like acting as their go-between, but he would do whatever Maggie or Hannibal asked him to. It worried her, because, maybe out of some perceived guilt, Hannibal only used Hank when time was short. The sheriff still moved slower than usual after dealing with Barish's people so many months ago.  
  
She drove as quickly as possible without attracting attention. Her cover story was another family emergency. She smiled wryly to herself; based on these 'occurrences' since meeting the team, Maggie's family was the unluckiest bunch she'd ever heard of.  
  
Hank shook his head as she came hurrying in. He handed her the notes he'd taken from his phone call. She apologetically smiled her thanks as she perused the notes. That turned to a frown as she read further.  
  
"I already called your backup, Maggie. Another family emergency, two to three weeks, right?"  
  
She shook her head. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Hank."  
  
"Probably spend a lot of time behind bars." He looked sternly at her, all but shaking his finger in her face. "You be careful this time, Maggie. Something about this one is off."  
  
"I know, Hank. I'll be careful. Promise." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before heading out the door.  
  
She drove straight out of town, and connected with the northbound freeway a half hour later. She knew by the dust cloud that had appeared some distance behind her that she was, indeed, being followed. She wasn't too worried; John would have known she'd be followed, and would have various diversions set up for them along the way.  
  
Over the next five hours, Maggie made seven different stops. At each one, she called the number she'd been given at the last one and got the new directions. By the time she made the last call, her patience was growing thin. This was much too much cloak and dagger stuff. Not like John at all. It did nothing to ease her feeling that something major was wrong.  
  
At least now she was on her way to the final destination. The caller had warned her it was off the beaten path, and it was no exaggeration. With every turn of the steep road, her car complained about the potholes and ruts and rocks. She had no idea if anyone was still trying to follow her, and at this point, didn't really care. John would just have to come up with something if they had. She found herself thinking that this whole thing had better be worth it, then ashamedly realized what that really meant. She took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel tighter.  
  
Eventually, Maggie rounded a final curve and spied a decrepit mobile home situated in a small clearing. Settling uncertainly against it was an old two-door garage. One door hung crookedly open a foot or so, and she could see the back end of a black van parked inside. It struck her that BA had been very careless to leave it like that, and her anxiety quickened.  
  
She parked on the far side of the trailer, and looked cautiously around as she rounded the front and stepped up to the front door. All quiet, as far as she could see. No one opened the door, and she again thought that odd. She pulled at the handle, and after a momentary stubbornness, the door swung outward. She stepped inside, expecting to see the team, expecting to find at least one wounded man.  
  
The trailer was completely empty. No person, no furniture, no appliances. Not even carpet on the floor. An empty shell.  
  
What the heck?  
  
She took a couple more steps into the trailer, and caught a movement outside. Before she could get to the window, the door burst open and the trailer filled with armed men. It took only seconds for the mobile home to be searched.  
  
"Where are they, Dr. Sullivan?"  
  
"I..."  
  
Another man stepped angrily through the door. "The van's a rental, sir. We've been set up!"  
  
*****  
  
"This is not going to work."  
  
"Of course it's going to work, Kurt. These things always work."  
  
Kurt looked across the fence one more time.  
  
"This is not going to work."  
  
Murdock rolled his eyes, and moved forward with his wire cutters. Kurt shook his head, followed.  
  
Moments later they were seated in a military cargo van, Kurt working the wires under the dash.  
  
"I still think we should have just hijacked one that was already out."  
  
"And then we would have had to deal with the guys in it. Trust me, this is better."  
  
"Sure." Kurt connected the last wires, heard the engine cough to life. "We steal a van, drive it past the guards, then a couple hours later, drive it right back past them. What happens if someone notices that they're missing a van in the meantime?"  
  
"They won't."  
  
"How do you know?" They were moving toward the gate, Kurt waiting for the wail of sirens behind them.  
  
"Because no one in their right mind would be checking the motor pool at one o'clock in the morning. Besides..."  
  
"...but it's perfectly normal to go out on a pickup."  
  
Murdock sighed. Sometimes Kurt was more like Face than Face was. "Just listen and learn, muchacho. Listen and learn."  
  
They pulled up to the gate, and Murdock leaned out the passenger window as the guard stepped up.  
  
"What's up, guys?" The guard looked curiously at the two men, dressed in street clothes.  
  
"Hey, sarge, we're kinda pullin' a fast one here." Murdock winked at him. "Scuttlebutt has it there's gonna be a surprise inspection first thing this morning. By the Old Man himself. I got a friend, who has a friend...know what I mean?"  
  
"Yeah, but what do you need the van for?"  
  
"Well, my buddy, he didn't get the last set of requisitions processed in a timely manner, so to speak, and I told him I'd take care of it."  
  
"I don't know, sir. This is highly irregular."  
  
"Hey, man, c'mon. One weekend warrior for another, huh? I gave you a heads up on the inspection, man. The Old Man's gonna be looking at everybody, know what I mean?"  
  
The sergeant grimaced. He hated inspections. Especially when the CO himself showed up.  
  
"Okay, guys, but be careful. It's my watch, y'know."  
  
"Noooo problem, sarge. Be back in a couple hours, tops."  
  
Kurt started laughing a block later.  
  
*****  
  
"What about the IV?"  
  
"Pull the line, it's too obvious. We're going to have a hard enough time slipping him past the guards."  
  
"Sedation?"  
  
"I'll have to inject it until we get there. Don't worry; I'll keep him under."  
  
"Okay, guys. Watch his shoulder."  
  
"Got it."  
  
"Okay, get the blanket. Colder than a witch's tit out there."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know..."  
  
Daryl stuck his head out into the hallway. The nurse at the desk was watching for him; she glanced around quickly and nodded. Drawing back into the room, he waved the men forward with their cargo. Quickly the gurney was wheeled down the hall to the staff elevator. With a quick 'thank you' to the nurse, Daryl jabbed the button for the basement level. A few minutes later, they were loading the gurney into the back of a steel gray van.  
  
"What did you tell that nurse?" Hannibal stood outside the van, supervising the detail.  
  
"Oh, that we'd received word that the bad guys might know where he was, so we had to move him out quickly. And that we weren't sure where the leak was, so she had to keep quiet about it."  
  
Hannibal smiled. "Nice."  
  
"Yes, she was..." Daryl smiled back and climbed into the van.  
  
Chuckling, Hannibal shut the van door and hurried around to the front.  
  
BA was already in the driver's seat, impatient to get going. They had a two and a half hour drive ahead of them, and he worried about keeping Face comfortable for that long. Guiltily, he admitted he was more worried about keeping him under for that long. The last thing he wanted was that thing from the cabin making an appearance in the back of the van.  
  
He pulled the van out of the parking space and carefully maneuvered around the other vehicles in the cramped space. A few minutes later they were rolling down the highway. BA didn't think about their destination. It wasn't someplace he really wanted to be going. The Duluth International Airport.  
  
Specifically, the Air National Guard unit based there.  
  
*****  
  
He was running through the undergrowth, sweat streaming into his eyes so he could hardly see where he was going. He could hear the Huey's overhead, coming down. He sprinted ahead, knowing he had only minutes.  
  
He saw his CO a few yards away, one hand on the Huey, the other waving the soldiers toward the chopper. He ran faster. Tripped. Yelled to Hannibal. Got up, stumbled forward again.  
  
The Huey was lifting off. He made a wild leap, felt someone grab his arm. His fingers locked on, his other hand coming up. Felt himself being pulled in. Fell onto the floor. Looked up.  
  
Randy. Grinning at him.  
  
Safe.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl gently inserted the needle into the tube still in Sam's arm. Watched as the fluid slowly emptied. A few minutes later the man's mumblings stopped.  
  
"Okay. Let's go."  
  
BA, Kurt, Murdock and Frankie quickly slid the gurney out of their van and into the confiscated vehicle. They pushed the supply boxes around it. Anyone taking more than a cursory glance would see him, but they were hoping the sergeant at the gate would be more interested in getting them out of sight before his own complicity was discovered.  
  
Twenty minutes later Murdock was filing the forged flight plans. He'd looked them over quickly. Kurt was nearly as good as Face at this. He smiled at the clerk, sauntered out of the office and toward the hangar. The guys had moved the fake supply boxes into the plane first, while the MP was still watching. Frankie managed to engage the guy in some fast talk about getting into the military police while Face was loaded. By the time Murdock arrived, they were all set.  
  
The sun was just breaking over the horizon as the plane lifted off, heading due south.


	51. Chapter 51

Hannibal woke with the sun full in his face. He squinted at the window, trying to get his bearings. Down below, he could see a large river passing by. The Rio Grande? So it wouldn't be long now. He stretched his back, stood and moved carefully through the plane to where Face was situated. Not surprising, Randy and Daryl were flanking the gurney.  
  
"How's he doing?"  
  
"So far, so good. Hasn't stirred since I gave him the last injection." Daryl glanced at his watch. "He should be good until we get to La Ventana."  
  
Hannibal sat down next to Daryl, unconsciously watching for any movement from Face. "Where exactly is this place, anyway?"  
  
"It's southeast of Monterrey, about an hour's drive. Don't worry. I contacted my uncle before we left. He'll have someone waiting for us at the airport. I should go let Murdock know what to do."  
  
"What do you mean?" Randy looked suspicious. From the looks of him, Hannibal knew he hadn't caught any sleep on the way.  
  
"Well, by this time, the National Guard's probably realized we didn't take the plane to Chicago. And it won't take long for the Mexican authorities to realize a United States military transport shouldn't be landing at their airport without any notice. So we'll have to take a little evasive action." Daryl looked from one frowning face to the other. "I was going to let you guys know after I talked to Murdock. We're going to have to be ready to move, and fast."  
  
Randy and Hannibal looked at each other. They should have known...  
  
*****  
  
"You find them, he's yours. The rest come back to me."  
  
"I want both of them."  
  
"You'll take what I give you. Any change in plans without my authorization, and you'll wish you'd never heard of me."  
  
The two men glared at each other for several more moments. It was the younger man who finally backed down. The other had expected just that.  
  
"Now that we understand each other, I suggest you get started. Get in touch with this Dr. Garr, and the National Guard in Duluth. I want this finished. Once and for all."  
  
"Yessir."  
  
*****  
  
The plane taxied to the far end of the airfield and off into the grass, as the men inside fought to keep their footing. As soon as it came to a stop, BA and Randy undid the restraints holding the gurney in place. A truck rolled up to the back, having come in from a side road and breaking through the fence. The six men surrounded the gurney protectively, pushing it out of the plane's cargo doors and hoisting it into the truck. There were no restraints for it in the truck, so twelve hands held on tightly. Only minutes later the truck roared off, going back through the newly created opening in the fence, and disappeared.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton walked out of the airport manager's office late that morning, the report in his briefcase. Not much to go on. There would, of course, be nothing in the airplane. His interview with the MP's at Duluth had confirmed who had taken the plane. No surprises there.  
  
It hadn't taken long to track the missing airplane. One didn't drop an Air National Guard plane at a Mexican airport and walk away without attracting notice. He would just be chasing his tail trying to trace the truck they had used to escape. No real description of it. Everyone's attention had been on the plane, and the rather spectacular exit from the airport had been too quick for more than a cursory look at the truck itself.  
  
Now he had to figure out why they had come to Mexico. They could have gone anywhere in the States. Why here?  
  
He stopped, thinking. The truck. Somebody had to be driving that truck, someone had to arrange for their pickup at the airport. Someone who was willing to take that chance for them. That was why they had come to Mexico. They had a benefactor here. So now the question was, which one of them was the benefactor really helping?  
  
Time to put in a call to Stockwell. He needed the personnel files. All of them.  
  
*****  
  
Face had been whisked away, accompanied by Hannibal and two people he assumed were servants in the household. The foursome were met in a distant bedroom by a man who introduced himself as Dr. Perea. He immediately performed a quick examination of his new patient. The trip from the airport had been a little rough on his shoulder, but the doctor assured him it was nothing to worry about. Reluctantly, Hannibal allowed himself to be escorted out of the room. He joined the rest of his men on the large stone patio.  
  
There was also another man present on the patio, an older, harder version of Daryl. He hadn't been seen when they first arrived in Las Ventana, but now sat in a lounge chair, talking quietly with Daryl, while the rest of the men sat around the perimeter, or wandered aimlessly along the balustrade. Hannibal's arrival got everyone's attention. Daryl hurried over.  
  
"Colonel Smith, I'd like you to meet my Uncle Mick."  
  
Hannibal shook hands. "I appreciate your hospitality, Mr..."  
  
"Just call me Mick." He smiled smoothly. "And it's no problem. Any friends of my nephew are friends of mine. I'm sorry our patient had such a rough ride here, however. The roads do leave something to be desired. Dr. Perea has assured me there will be no aftereffects, thankfully." Ignoring the look from Hannibal at the 'our patient', he turned to Daryl, who was looking very uncomfortable. "I'll see you later, Daryl. You will all join me for dinner, of course. I'm afraid I have to leave later this evening, take care of some business. I'll be gone for a few days, but in the meantime, mi casa es su casa." Smiling benevolently once more, he sauntered into the house.  
  
Hannibal looked over at Daryl. "Your uncle seems very accommodating, but I get the feeling there's something we should know about."  
  
"Oh, uh, well, Mick had a few troubles in the States. He's kind of a persona non grata..."  
  
"Troubles that could affect our stay here?"  
  
"No, oh, no, not at all. The government doesn't even know he's here..." Daryl trailed off, thoroughly ill at ease.  
  
"Then we don't need to discuss it further." Hannibal smiled at him. There were times you probed, times you kept your eyes shut. Daryl nodded, grateful. "Now, we need to make some plans. I want to get Maggie down here if at all possible. Not that I don't trust your uncle's doctor, but..."  
  
"Not a problem, Colonel. Dr. Perea was just doing Mick a favor. We can make whatever arrangements you wish. I've basically been given carte blanche."  
  
Hannibal grinned at Daryl's eagerness, but Randy didn't seem quite so enthusiastic. He was of the firm opinion that most people weren't that helpful for nothing. He would have to do some checking on 'Uncle Mick'. He wanted to know exactly who's 'casa' they were in.  
  
*****  
  
The courier had delivered the files to Clifton's hotel room late that evening. It had taken some time to gather the detailed information he had required, and had solicited yet another dire warning from Stockwell about his expectations. Clifton blew it off. After hanging up, of course.  
  
He set the files on the A-Team and Randy to one side. He'd already gone over those months ago, and didn't really think he'd forgotten any mentions of Mexico. He would go over them again, just in case, but for the moment he needed to look at the gruesome twosome - Daryl and Kurt. He'd seen their service records, and their files from their work for Stockwell, but he needed to go in-depth with both of them now.  
  
One way or the other, he would find out why they had come here, and who was protecting them. And then he'd lay out his own plans.  
  
*****  
  
Dinner was a long affair, designed to relax. It wasn't working for Randy. He was somewhat disappointed in his companions, as they seemed to be enjoying themselves a great deal. He tried to give them the benefit of the doubt; it was an old habit, from the war, taking any chance to step back from a mission and enjoy life while one could. All the same, Randy's mind kept going to that distant bedroom, where Sam was, alone. Granted, he was unconscious; still...  
  
He caught Smith looking at him. Well, perhaps one other was not quite as relaxed as he pretended to be. He mustn't take the Colonel for granted. He may have made some serious mistakes in the past, but Randy knew where his loyalties were. And loyalty was a fierce element in the man. Nor was he easily fooled. Randy had caught him watching Mick carefully, surreptitiously. Listening as carefully to what he didn't say, as to what he did. Randy also knew they were both considering the possible implications for Daryl. They would have to tread very, very carefully.  
  
Finally, Randy had had enough. Mick was an old-fashioned type of guy. Dinner was followed by drinks on the patio. Getting Hannibal's attention, Randy nodded toward Sam's room. Hannibal nodded back and moved over toward Mick. Good. Smith would make sure he wasn't missed.  
  
For some reason, Randy knew Mick would not like any of his 'guests' wandering about.  
  
It took him a few minutes to reach his destination. The house was more of a mansion, long and sprawling. Once he took a wrong turn and had the devil of a time finding his way back through the darkened hallways again. Finally, he came up on the door and turned the knob.  
  
Locked.  
  
Randy could feel his distrust rising rapidly. Why the hell would Mick have the door locked? They were supposed to be guests, not prisoners. Impatiently he knocked loudly on the door. He heard shuffling from inside, the lock being manipulated, and the door slid open a few inches.  
  
"I'm sorry, senor, but he is not allowed visitors just now."  
  
"I'm sorry, too." Randy shoved the door inward, knocking the man flat on his ass. Ignoring him, Randy stepped over to the bed. He had no idea what all the lights and numbers on the machines were supposed to say, but he could tell that Sam's heartbeat was steady, and he seemed to breathing without difficulty. He turned when he heard the guard - for that was the only way he could think of the man - getting up off the floor.  
  
"You can go now. I'll stay with the patient."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Go. Now." Randy's cold glare sent the man scuttling out of the room. Randy followed him to the door, and locked it behind him. Small comfort, as obviously the regular occupants of the house would have a key, but at least it would give him warning of their entrance.  
  
He sat down by the bed, thinking. He doubted Mick would hear of this; at least not until he returned from his business trip. That would give Randy a few days to figure out what the hell was going on, and what to do about it. One thing he knew for sure.  
  
He would have Sam out of here before Mick got back. Team or no team.


	52. Chapter 52

Hannibal was standing on the balcony outside his room when Mick left for his business trip. He watched the black limousine slither down the long driveway, disappearing around one of the many curves. He sighed, absently lighting a cigar. He had a bad feeling about this. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was definitely something 'off' about Daryl's uncle.  
  
That in itself was a dilemma. Obviously, Daryl knew his uncle was a crook. Just as obviously, he cared about the man anyway. And the feeling was mutual. No one would go out of their way like this otherwise. And yet...  
  
Just what kind of crook was this guy? White collar? Somehow Hannibal didn't think so, although tax evasion came to mind. But there was something oily about this guy, and cold. A man who was used to making things happen. Pleasant on the outside, accommodating. But cold as ice inside. Exactly the kind of guy the team would go after under normal circumstances.  
  
Hannibal had a pretty good idea that Mick knew exactly who they were, too. Daryl hadn't told him; the machinations involved in setting this whole thing up were so convoluted, no real details had ever been discussed. Daryl had had to be careful, not only to not give away their own situation, but to make sure his uncle was protected. Hannibal had thought the Able was being over-cautious; now he understood.  
  
And, of course, there was Stockwell. He had to know about Mick. Stockwell was very, very thorough in his background checks. He must have felt confident enough in Daryl to accommodate the black sheep in his family. Plus, it was yet another hold on the man. Another way of making him toe the mark.  
  
So would Stockwell make the connection now? Unlikely. Daryl said he hadn't had any contact with his uncle for years, by mutual agreement. Hannibal had thought it was a family thing. Another misconception corrected.  
  
Damn. Hannibal tossed the cigar butt down on the expensive Italian tiles. He wished he'd taken the time to learn more about Mick before agreeing to this. He may have just pulled his expanded team out of the frying pan and into the fire.  
  
The question now was, how badly were they going to get burned?  
  
*****  
  
The limousine purred through the Mexican countryside, the driver well acquainted with the maneuvering needed to avoid the deepest potholes. Mick sat in the back, carefully sipping a bourbon as he thought about his guests. An interesting situation his nephew had handed him.  
  
Mick cared a great deal for Daryl. Always had. His late brother's son, he'd watched out for him from the sidelines since he was a child. Helped get him into medical school (although it hadn't taken that much effort; Daryl was brilliant in research). Followed his career over the years.  
  
And then that debacle at the pharmaceutical company. Not Daryl's fault; he'd been given only partial information. A setup. That's where Mick had come to the rescue with all his influence. Daryl's career in the medical field was ruined, but it was a small price to pay, considering what could have happened.  
  
If only he hadn't gotten involved with General Stockwell. Mick hadn't seen that coming at all. Hadn't realized Stockwell had been watching Daryl almost as actively as Mick himself had. Wouldn't surprise him if Stockwell had been behind the whole setup, using Daryl to stake a claim on Mick. He shook his head. No amount of talking could change Daryl's mind. He wanted to get back into medical research, do something to make amends. Too damn Catholic, that was his problem. And then he hadn't been able to fulfill his dream after all. The promised position had disappeared, and Daryl had found himself nothing more than a common spy.  
  
Daryl was well aware of Mick's 'career'. The family had been close; no secrets. Just no indiscretions. Once Daryl joined Stockwell, he and Mick had agreed it wouldn't be prudent to stay in too close contact. But Mick had watched out for him. From a distance. And when Daryl had called him, there was never any question that he would receive the help he asked for.  
  
After all, what were families for?  
  
But Mick hadn't known until they arrived just who Daryl's friends were. The pragmatist in Mick had come barreling out. That part of him that had put him in the position of power he had enjoyed for decades. Knowing who these men were had changed things.  
  
There was a wealth of possibilities to consider now.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl unlocked the door and stepped into the bedroom. He was shocked to find the barrel of a very nasty looking gun poking into his chest. A second's hesitation and it was removed. Randy stepped back, looking at him with suspicion.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I could ask you the same thing, Daryl. I see one of us, at least, was given a key to the dungeon."  
  
"What? Oh, hey, that's not...no, the lock is for Sam's protection. Honestly, Randy. Mick thought, as long as he was incapacitated, it would be better to have some extra safeguards in place. That's all."  
  
"Hmm. So why didn't anyone tell the rest of us?"  
  
"Just an oversight, I'm sure, Randy. C'mon, this is my uncle. It's family, for chrissake."  
  
"Right. Family." Randy finally put away the Beretta and sat back down by the bed. Sam hadn't stirred.  
  
"Look, I'll make sure everyone gets a key, okay?" When Randy didn't respond, Daryl sighed and stepped over to the monitors. Everything looked good.  
  
"Hannibal's going to try and get Maggie down here in the next few days, but I'm going to try lessening the dose tomorrow. See how he responds."  
  
"Okay. The sooner he's back with the living, the better I'll like it."  
  
Okay, touchy subject warning. "Randy, uh, you know, sometimes there are after-effects. From the withdrawal."  
  
"For instance?"  
  
"Well, memory problems..."  
  
Randy actually laughed out loud at that. In fact, Daryl thought he laughed a little too loud, a little too long.  
  
"Look, I know it's ironic, under the circumstances, but I'm talking short term memory as well. And, well, he may not come back quite the way we think he should. Or the way we want him to."  
  
Randy sobered. "You mean he might come back as Face, instead of Sam. Right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Or he might come back so totally fucked up nobody will know who he is, including him, right?"  
  
"It's a possibility. Hannibal said he was pretty screwed up even before he started drinking."  
  
"That's putting it mildly." Randy scowled down at Sam. "It doesn't matter. If he comes back as Face, then Smith can have him. No arguments. If Sam comes back, he's mine."  
  
It bothered Daryl to hear Sam talked about as if he were a commodity, but he let it go. "What if he's just..."  
  
"Fucked up? Then we'll take care of him the best we can." Randy's scowl softened. "He won't be abandoned, if that's what you're worried about, Daryl. We take care of our own. That's how Smith operates, that's how I operate. One way or another, he'll be taken care of."  
  
Daryl nodded, relieved somewhat. He knew Smith would feel the same way. Daryl just wondered what Sam, or Face, would have to say about it.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton watched the dawn breaking from his hotel window. He'd been up all night, pouring over the personnel files. He thought he'd found what he was looking for, although it wasn't all that helpful. He was no closer to locating the men, but he had a pretty good idea who the benefactor was.  
  
Alberto "The Mick" Marucchi. Earned his nickname from his ties to the IRA. Tended to be involved in king making rather than drugs, gambling or prostitution. Probably had as many prominent friends and acquaintances as Stockwell did. To Clifton's way of thinking, the only difference between the two men was the fact that the Feds wanted to get their hands on Marucchi because of his gun running and terrorist connections. That, and a few counts of murder here and there. Not a man to be crossed. Which made it even more interesting to find out that Stockwell had actively recruited the nephew.  
  
Not that it had done him any good. Clifton knew for a fact that Marucchi had cut ties with Daryl as soon as he joined up with the General. As 'punishment', Daryl had been switched to surveillance, instead of going into a newly opened branch of Stockwell's organization, headed by a certain Dr. Barish. Had Stockwell kept that branch going instead of sweeping it over to the Feds, and had Marucchi been less shy about his nephew, it might easily have been Daryl who worked on Randy and Peck. Clifton chuckled at that irony. The chuckle died as he thought about the fact that instead, Daryl had become part of the gaggle of men who had made Clifton's reputation less than sterling.  
  
Well, that was about to change.  
  
If Marucchi was in Mexico, and Clifton thought that was obvious now, he could be found. Find him, find Daryl and the others.  
  
Find Randy and Peck.  
  
And maybe let Stockwell have his prize.


	53. Chapter 53

Maggie sat on the bed in the motel room, waiting. Worrying. Just like she had most of the night. The last thing she'd been told, during that final phone call, was to go to this motel if anything went wrong, and wait. Well, something had certainly gone wrong, at least to her way of thinking  
  
The Able in charge at the trailer had not been happy. Not with the team, and definitely not with her. He'd been positively rude. Insisted that she knew exactly where John and the 'rest of them' were. She'd eventually quit denying everything and just shut up. He finally got the point and had taken his men away. She'd waited for quite some time before leaving. And she had watched carefully for any cars that stayed behind her, regardless for how long or where they had come from. The motel was only forty-five minutes away from the mobile home. It had taken almost three hours before she felt safe to go there.  
  
The caller hadn't told her to use any particular name, so she just signed in as herself. After the long and tense drive, and the mess at the trailer, she was definitely in no mood for any more spy crap. If John was worried about surveillance, he would have to figure out some way around it.  
  
In the meantime, she'd had nothing but time to wonder about what was going on. Obviously, this whole trip was some kind of elaborate plan to get Stockwell off her back. And there was no reason to do that unless John needed her for something 'unofficial'. And that one of the team was injured in some way that they didn't want Stockwell to know about. Much as she would prefer to flatter herself, Hannibal wouldn't go through all this just because he was lonely.  
  
So one of them was injured, they needed a doctor they could trust, and yet, time did not seem to be as important as she had first assumed. Okay. Her time was not as important. But John had been under the gun. That's why they'd used Hank. She thought about the additional calls she'd made. Not the phone in the van. And as soon as the call was answered, the voice had started issuing instructions. As soon as the instructions were given, the call had disconnected. Automatic.  
  
A recording.  
  
Wherever John was, he couldn't answer a phone. So they were on the move, but didn't have the van. And they had at least one other person with them. A friend, or he wouldn't have had the code word. But who?  
  
Finally, the question that had worried her the most. Why didn't Stockwell know where they were?  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal was not happy. Not one damn bit.  
  
The first thing, earlier that morning, had been BA's discovery that there was not one vehicle left on the ranch. Not one. They were stranded.  
  
Then Hannibal had gone to Face's room and found it locked. That was the second thing. Having Randy point that damn gun in his face - the third thing.  
  
He couldn't wait to see what happened next. It didn't take long at all.  
  
Randy was just explaining to Hannibal what had happened with the guard the night before when Murdock came bursting through the now unlocked door. He was not happy, either.  
  
"No one, other than us, seems to speak English. They act like they don't even understand my Spanish!"  
  
Hannibal had some reservations about the last observation, but he didn't like the idea of being unable to communicate with Mick's staff. He also had to wonder how suddenly this inability to speak English had happened.  
  
"All right, Murdock. We'll just have to do for ourselves as much as possible. I'm sure they'll let us know if we try something we're not supposed to."  
  
"I don't like this, Colonel. Locking Sam in here, no vehicles, the staff...Daryl may trust this guy, but..." Randy was getting more and more angry. And while Hannibal agreed with his worries, he was also concerned about Randy's state of mind. He seemed more tense than usual, if that were possible. Hannibal had to wonder how much sleep he'd gotten last night, knowing he'd stayed with Face. Getting on the band wagon at this particular moment didn't seem prudent.  
  
"We all need to calm down here. From what Daryl said, Uncle Mick is not exactly running on the straight and narrow. These things may all be standard procedure for him. And I can understand the reasoning behind the lock. It does make sense."  
  
Randy glared at Hannibal, but said nothing more.  
  
"Okay, Maggie should be at the motel Kurt set up. We'll give her a call, get her down here ASAP. Murdock, you want to take care of that?" Hannibal had a feeling having Maggie down here would benefit everyone, not only because she was a doctor they could all trust, but because she was just naturally calm and level-headed.  
  
"Sure, Hannibal. Cell phones won't work down here, but I'm sure 'Uncle Mick' won't mind a few extra bucks on his phone bill. But how are we going to pick her up?"  
  
"We'll let Daryl figure that out. After all, this was his idea." And his uncle.  
  
"Will do. I'll have her down here faster than a dog bites fleas. Faster than a speeding bullet. Quick as a wink..." Murdock loped out of the room, spouting more platitudes as he disappeared down the hall.  
  
"We need to get out of here, Colonel." Randy's voice was quiet, firm, and obviously not wanting an argument.  
  
"I know that, Randy. Eventually. And the sooner, the better," he added, hastily, seeing Randy was about to protest. "But we can't just take off. First, Face needs a day or two to rest up. Mick was right about that - his shoulder did take a bit of a beating getting here.  
  
"Second, we don't have any place to go just yet. We need to find someplace secure before we leave here, so we don't end up dragging Face all over hell. That won't do him any good, or any of the rest of us, either.  
  
"Third, and this is maybe the most important, I'm not so sure Mick is going to be willing to let us go. So far, he's playing the helpful host. That may or may not change if we suddenly decide to leave. I just don't know. All I do know is we cannot force anything right now. If Mick's staff is as loyal, and as numerous, as they appear to be, we're outnumbered about four to one. And while that normally wouldn't stop me, we also have to deal with Face."  
  
Randy looked down at Sam for a long moment before speaking.  
  
"All right. We'll give Sam a couple more days here. If I find a place for us to go and stay put, then we'll decide how to deal with Mick's possible objections. But don't forget, Daryl is on our side. That's got to pull some weight with Mick."  
  
"It probably will. But somehow, I don't think he got where he is by being overly sentimental."  
  
Before Randy could reply, the door flew open once again, Murdock, Frankie and BA storming in.  
  
"The phones are dead, Hannibal!"  
  
*****  
  
Clifton was at the Monterrey - Escobedo International Airport, talking with the chief of security. He hadn't expected to learn anything new about the hijacked airplane, and he didn't. The main reason for coming here was to gossip. Drop a few names - perfectly respectable ones - and impress the hell out of the chief. Establish camaraderie. An us-against-them attitude. Move on to the less than stellar residents of the area. And then start reeling him in.  
  
So far the plan was working like a charm.  
  
"You must have your hands full with some of these people. Coming and going with their entourages, causing no end of security problems. Crowd control. Pickpockets. And photographers. They must drive you nuts."  
  
"Oh, yes, the photographers are terrible. No respect for the other passengers, parking restrictions, nothing! Only the photos are important."  
  
"If only those guys knew..."  
  
"Senor?"  
  
"Why, what these people are really like! Where that fabulous money of theirs really came from."  
  
"Oh, why...why, yes. Of course. If they knew that, they wouldn't be so eager."  
  
"Exactly my point. Why, you must see all kinds of people parade through here like they were celebrities, and all they really are, are crooks."  
  
The security chief shook his head wisely. "Oh, yes, I hate to admit it, but...What can one do? Especially one like myself? My authority is only here at the airport."  
  
"And some of these guys get a little, shall we say, help? Not from the authorities here, of course, but perhaps a mayor or police chief in some small village? Where the guy spreads a little cash around, improves the area, improves some bank accounts...You probably know of some villages where this has happened." Treading carefully here.  
  
"There are several around here where we have found them, yes. It is difficult to catch them, because the villagers like the jobs, or the money, and so they protect them. But usually our state police are able to capture them in short order."  
  
"Usually. Not always?"  
  
"No, not always."  
  
"Anyone in particular?"  
  
The chief looked straight at Clifton. "Senor, you are not here about the plane alone, are you?"  
  
Clifton smiled. Smart man. "The man I'm looking for could be involved with the men who stole the plane."  
  
"And that would be?"  
  
"Alberto Marucchi."  
  
The security chief frowned, looked out of his window at the planes landing, taking off, or just waiting to move. He sat still for several moments before speaking.  
  
"I'm afraid I have not heard of this man. Besides, someone like that could not come here, not unless he had many friends in this country. Many friends." He raised an eyebrow at Clifton.  
  
Clifton understood very well. Marucchi was around, all right. But protected. He nodded sympathetically.  
  
The chief continued, his voice casual. "Well, unfortunately, I have duties to attend to. If you have time, there is a very nice little place south of here. La Ventana. I'm sure you would find it very...scenic."  
  
"Thank you, Chief. I could use a little vacation..."  
  
*****  
  
"I...I don't understand it, Colonel. Really. It must be just some temporary thing..." Daryl was pale before Hannibal's formidable stare.  
  
"Temporary or not, Daryl, we need a phone. And a vehicle." Hannibal was trying very hard not to take out his anger on Daryl. He deliberately softened his tone. "We need to get in touch with Dr. Sullivan, and get her down here as soon as possible. Your uncle is making that...extremely difficult."  
  
"I know, Colonel, but you have to understand his point of view. I mean, you guys have a reputation..."  
  
Hannibal paused. He hadn't considered that perspective. Interesting. "You're right, Daryl. I guess it would be prudent for your uncle to take some precautions, all things considered. But, that doesn't change the fact that we have a dilemma here."  
  
"Okay, Colonel. Don't worry. I'll talk to Leandro. I'll fix it, Hannibal. I'll have Dr. Sullivan here as soon as possible, I swear."  
  
"Thanks, Daryl. I'm sorry if I came on a little strong."  
  
"No problem. I'm used to it." At Hannibal's quizzical look, Daryl just shrugged. "I know you know who Mick really is, Hannibal. And your reaction is something I've lived with for a long, long time. I'll take care of the problem; all I ask is that you give him the benefit of the doubt. He's not all bad."  
  
"With a nephew like he's got, how could he be?" Hannibal grinned.  
  
Chuckling with embarrassment, Daryl walked off, intent on fixing things. And keeping them fixed.  
  
Neither man saw Randy, listening just outside the door, a dark frown on his face.


	54. Chapter 54

Kurt stood on the veranda outside Sam's room. Daryl had given him the key, still unable to locate anyone who could get extras for the team. They had tried leaving the door unlocked, but every time they left and returned, it would once more be closed against them. Finally, Randy had insisted that 'one of us' stay in the room at all times.  
  
It was Kurt's turn.  
  
Every now and then he would check the machines, make sure they were plugged in. Otherwise, he manually checked Sam's pulse, listened for any breathing problems. Made sure he wasn't coming out of the deep haze they had him in. That done, he'd wander out to the veranda and stand.  
  
Had he been privy to the plans made in that stateside hospital room, he would have put the kibosh on the whole thing, right then and there. No way in hell would he have allowed Daryl to go back to his uncle.  
  
Daryl had told him about Mick Marucchi a long time ago. Stakeout, late night, no action. Bored out of his mind, Kurt was getting more and more irritated. Daryl was his new partner, only a few months out of Stockwell's training program. Sopping wet behind the ears, but sharp. Very sharp. Knew he was too green yet, let Kurt take the lead and keep it. After all this time, he still did that. Never pushed forward unless Kurt gave the go-ahead.  
  
Until now.  
  
How it got started, Kurt couldn't remember. Some innocuous comment, probably, got them talking about their families. Daryl had a way of drawing him out. Daryl knew more about Kurt's parents and siblings after one night's stakeout than anyone else had learned in the entire time Kurt had been in the organization.  
  
And then it was Daryl's turn, and Kurt had learned that his new partner was the nephew of one of the most notorious gunrunners in the country. When Daryl had told him that Mick didn't think it wise for them to keep in touch with each other, Kurt agreed, wholeheartedly. Insisted that Daryl give his word he would stay as far from Marucchi as he possibly could.  
  
And now they were staying at his villa, in the middle of a godforsaken part of Mexico. Cut off. No backup. With a man down.  
  
Shit.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl sat in the passenger seat, bumping cross country in Leandro's beat up pickup, wishing he hadn't eaten quite so big a lunch. They were going to the sister's, who lived in a small bungalow on the edge of Mick's property. Leandro was angry. While he considered it a source of pride that his sister had been chosen to be Mick's 'special friend', he could see the disgust in this man's eyes. He became embarrassed, not by his sister, but because of the nephew's attitude. As if he had any right to judge...  
  
Daryl had had to argue forcibly with Mick's right hand man about this whole trip. Daryl knew Leandro had his truck somewhere around here, and he knew the man would know where the nearest working phone was. They had ended up walking nearly a mile to reach the truck. And Daryl was not at all happy being informed of his uncle's 'preferences'. Some things he just didn't need to know. Unfortunately, Leandro had misunderstood his distaste. Well, he'd mend that fence when they reached the sister's. A more gallant greeting the woman would never know. He gritted his teeth, but prepared his smile as they pulled into the yard.  
  
After receiving what Daryl considered a positively predatory reception from the sister, he was left alone in the small house to make his call. Through the window, he watched Leandro berating his sister as they walked away. Apparently it was one thing to be Mick's mistress; one didn't try for a double-header. Shaking his head, he turned away and waited for his connection to go through.  
  
It took nearly ten minutes before he was speaking with Dr. Sullivan. He made it short and sweet, giving her the code word from before, but not bothering to introduce himself. She was to hang up, go to a phone booth, make her reservations under a name he gave her, then go back to the motel room. He would call back in exactly forty-five minutes. He hung up while she was still asking questions.  
  
Daryl didn't go outside. He'd already told Leandro it could take some time, and knew they would wait until he was ready, without interference. It was one thing his uncle insisted on from the people who worked for him. Do as you're told, no questions, no interference. Well, the second thing he insisted on. Number one rule: No talking.  
  
Those rules had served the man well for close to forty years.  
  
Daryl made himself at home. He made a pot of coffee, rummaged through the girl's desk. Bills, lots of bills, expensive stores in Monterrey. All the bills addressed to her, but Mick, of course, would be taking care of the payments. From the look of her expenditures, his uncle must be doing quite well, despite his remote locale. Daryl didn't know if he should be pleased or disgusted.  
  
He spent some more time checking out the premises; he felt no guilt in it. It was, after all, Mick's property. It never hurt to make sure the hired help wasn't taking in a little on the side, and from the senorita's advances toward Daryl, it wasn't a stretch to imagine there had been others. Daryl never even considered whether he would tell Mick if he found any such evidence. That went without saying.  
  
Leandro's sister was either more faithful than she appeared, or very, very careful. Lucky girl.  
  
Exactly forty-five minutes after he had first hung up on Dr. Sullivan, his return call was put through. He got the necessary flight information, told her she would be picked up, and again hung up abruptly.  
  
Leaving the bungalow, he signaled Leandro, who immediately interrupted his conversation with his sister and headed for the truck. Daryl chuckled to himself. One could get used to this kind of treatment very easily.  
  
Too easily.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal was watching Kurt. Kurt was watching Daryl. Daryl was staring off into space, a slight frown on his face. BA was taking his turn with Face. Randy, Murdock and Frankie were playing a very slow paced game of poker a few feet away from Hannibal's chair in the large library. The Colonel could hear the betting; Murdock, as usual, was playing just for the fun of it. He didn't really care how many matchsticks he had. Frankie was, as usual, smugly boasting of his prowess at the game. He seemed to ignore his ever dwindling stack. And Randy was, unfortunately, playing with a grim determination, watching every card, every play. Hannibal thought it too bad the man didn't smoke. He wouldn't want for a light for a very long time.  
  
They were all waiting for Maggie to arrive. Leandro had disappeared some time ago, and Hannibal had been assured that Maggie would be picked up safely and brought directly to the villa. Daryl's feigned ignorance of the location of the transportation for said pick up irritated Hannibal, but he decided there was no point in pushing the matter. When the time came - if the time came - he trusted Daryl to come up with whatever they would need from the ranch. He was willing to wait.  
  
Tired of watching half of his team watching each other, and listening to the other half trying to cheat each other, Hannibal pushed himself out of the overstuffed chair and headed for Face's room. If he knew BA, the man would be chomping at the bit at the forced inactivity. Or worse, he may have decided to tweak the machinery monitoring his teammate. No, surely BA wouldn't mess with that. Not medical equipment. Of course, working or not, it wouldn't affect Face. Hannibal hurried his steps just a bit.  
  
BA was neither pacing nor tinkering when Hannibal stepped into the bedroom. Instead, he stood over the bed, scowling down at Face.  
  
"Problem, BA?" Hannibal moved quickly to the bedside, carefully checking his lieutenant.  
  
"I don't know. He's movin around a bit. Should he be doin that?"  
  
"Well, Daryl did cut back on the sedative a bit. He seems to think it's better if Face is weaned off it slowly, even if he does get a little restless." Hannibal checked his watch. "Maggie will be here soon. She'll have to decide if that's the right course or not."  
  
"Hmph. I don't know as I'd let Daryl be makin decisions like that, Hannibal. He ain't no doctor."  
  
"Close enough to one, BA. And I trust his judgment. He wouldn't do anything that would hurt Face. Now, if you'd like to take a break, I'll stay with him until Maggie gets here."  
  
BA didn't say any more, just gave another long look at the patient, and rumbled out. Hannibal pulled a chair up beside the bed.  
  
Face was indeed 'movin around a bit'. Nothing like had happened before; apparently Daryl hadn't cut back quite as much as Dr. Garr had attempted. But his hands would jerk, just a little, now and again, and his mouth would twitch, as if he were trying to talk. Otherwise he was still.  
  
Hannibal had to wonder what was going on in that mind now.  
  
*****  
  
Maggie struggled to maintain her dignity, but it wasn't easy, being bounced nearly to the roof of the cab every minute. She had asked the man driving several times to please slow down, but he just glared ahead to the road. If one could call it a road. More like a cow path. She was quite sure it was not the main road; as they jarred over the hills, she would occasionally catch a glimpse of other traffic down below them. Obviously, the man driving didn't want them to be seen.  
  
She had no idea where she was being taken. She had disembarked from the plane and gone to collect her luggage, only to find the driver of this so called truck had already collected it and was waiting impatiently for her. He held a small sign with her assumed name on it, but only by chance did she even see it, as he only occasionally held it up from his side. He hadn't said one word to her, just looked at her as she approached him. He'd then picked up her two cases and strode outside to his truck. The drive had so far taken almost an hour and he was still mute.  
  
The truck suddenly slowed, and took a sharp turn, which almost landed her in the driver's lap. Grabbing the door handle, she pulled herself upright as gracefully as possible and glared over at him. She could swear he was wiping a smile from his face.  
  
Bastard.  
  
They turned onto a semi-smooth path and rounded a curve. Almost immediately she saw the villa ahead of them, lit up like a Christmas tree. As they pulled up in front of the massive door, she saw with relief that BA and Murdock were waiting for her. She caught her breath when she realized who the other three men behind them were.  
  
She had never thought to see any of them again. And wasn't all that sure she wanted to now.


	55. Chapter 55

"How long has he been like this?"  
  
"Close to two weeks now. Dr. Garr tried to bring him out a couple days ago, but he was too...disturbed. Daryl cut it down a little this morning. So far, so good."  
  
"Hmm. Well, I think I agree with Daryl. If we gradually bring him out, instead of doing it so abruptly, I think it will be easier on him. I don't like keeping him so heavily sedated for so long." Maggie frowned, watching Face closely. Finally she nodded. "Okay, John. I need to examine him, especially that shoulder wound, so I know exactly what's going on. I'll meet you all in the library in a half hour or so."  
  
Hannibal nodded and left her to do her job. Walking down the hall toward the library, he could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. Maggie was here; it would work out now.  
  
He was almost feeling like his old self as he stepped into the room where the team was waiting. One look at their faces told him he'd relaxed too soon. He spotted Mick's man, Leandro, talking to Daryl, tense. He stood, alert, waiting for the bad news.  
  
Daryl saw Hannibal at last, broke off from Leandro. "Colonel, Mick's on his way back. We may have a problem."  
  
Randy spoke, practically growling. "There was a message for Leandro when he got back tonight. Someone was poking around the county records this afternoon. Specifically, the land records. Tax records. One of the files pulled was for this property."  
  
*****  
  
Mick was angry. He hadn't been this angry in a long, long time. Not even when he was forced to leave the States. He had paid good money, lots of it, to ensure his privacy. His security. Now, someone had talked. Said just enough to let someone know where to look.  
  
He would find out who. He wasn't worried about that. He had to set an example. That's the way things worked. You made a deal, you paid the money, no one reneged. It was a matter of honor. You kept to the bargain. Someone broke that agreement, they would have to be dealt with. It wasn't a matter of revenge. Nor even of punishment. But you let one get by with it, and you couldn't trust the others. An example. See, this is what happens. So don't do it.  
  
That's what had made him so successful. Not just his business sense. Not just knowing where to be at what time. He could be trusted to uphold a bargain, and he expected the same of his associates. If he said he could get the merchandise, he got it. If he said it would be a certain place at a certain time, it was there. No one had to worry about Mick Marucchi.  
  
No one, except one who talked.  
  
Sure, he'd had to deal with this sort of thing before. That was business. But there was more to it, this time. Because he knew that it wasn't so much to do with him, as it was with his nephew and his friends. And that's what made him so angry. No one messed with his family. Especially not with Daryl. He sometimes thought he was fonder of his brother's son than of his own. There was something missing in his two sons, something that kept them from being 'nice' people in a not-so-nice business. Daryl had that something. That something that made him agonize over the hard choices. Something that made him do what he had to do, but not like it, not accept it as just business. And it made him special to his Uncle Mick.  
  
And now, some lowlife was coming after him, using his uncle to get to him.  
  
Nobody touched Alfredo Marucchi's family.  
  
*****  
  
"Well, Face's shoulder is a little rough, but it shouldn't be a problem. And he's calmed down some, so I think we can continue to decrease the sedative. Another week and he should be..." Maggie stopped, realizing that the men in the room were not really paying attention to her. "What's the matter?"  
  
"I don't know if we'll have a week, Maggie. Someone's been snooping around. We may have to relocate in a hurry."  
  
"That's not good, John. And I mean, not good. When I said the shoulder shouldn't be a problem, I meant if he weren't moved again. The bullet did a lot of damage to the muscles, and while they're healing, he just shouldn't be moved around. Especially not on these roads."  
  
"I know that, Maggie." There was a tone to Hannibal's voice that Maggie had never heard before, at least not directed at her. "But we have a pretty good idea of who's looking for us, and I need to be able to deal with him from a position of strength. Not like this."  
  
"You're willing to put Face at risk just so you can strike a better deal?"  
  
"Dr. Sullivan." Randy's voice was controlled, but there was a hint of derision in it. "Under the current circumstances, we are on the defensive. Which means Stockwell can decide who he's willing to spare, who he's determined to get rid of. He might show us some leniency. That's the best we can hope for. While our host enjoys a certain protection here, when push comes to shove, we are on our own. None of the locals will be willing to help us out if it means putting their own lives at risk. And Mick's men have one loyalty, to Mick; maybe to Daryl. The General can bring in an army of his Ables to take us, and no one is going to lift a hand to stop it. So unless you want to see a good many of us buried, you'll be ready to do what you can to stabilize him for a rough ride. Do we understand each other?"  
  
Maggie looked from Randy to Hannibal. While his face showed he didn't like the way Randy had said it, she knew John agreed with him. Angrily, she nodded and went back to Face.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton watched the ranch below for a few more minutes before giving up. This wasn't the place. Frustrated, he packed the binoculars in their case and moved back toward the jeep. It was the third place he'd looked at since dawn, and he was tired. He'd chosen the top five candidates, based on the closeness in time to Marucchi's departure from the States. He had two left. If he hurried, he could get to both of them before noon.  
  
He should have contacted Stockwell, gotten more men down here. Would have been much easier, much faster. But Clifton had his own agenda. And he didn't need Stockwell's interference. He smiled, mirthlessly, as he put the jeep in gear and maneuvered down the rocky hillside. Smith wasn't the only one who didn't let Stockwell in on his every move. It was one of Stockwell's faults coming back to bite him in the ass. He liked to hire the best for his special Ables, his special operatives. But the best weren't sheep. They liked to think - and act - for themselves. That's what made them the best. It also made them harder to control.  
  
He'd learned a few things about Smith, Randy, and the others. Knew they were nearly on a par with his own expertise. Close enough to really make this a challenge. He would not underestimate them this time. But he felt confident in the outcome. He would be probing their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities. And their weaknesses, while few, were powerful. Their loyalty to each other was the biggest. A close cousin was their protectiveness of a downed man. They ran as a pack; what weakened or endangered one, endangered them all.  
  
That was the key. To weaken the pack, one by one. To destroy them, one by one.  
  
Clifton smiled. He could hardly wait to get started. Time enough for Stockwell when he was finished.  
  
*****  
  
Maggie was adjusting the IV flow when Hannibal walked in. He frowned, watching her, glancing at Face.  
  
"Maybe we should rethink that, Maggie."  
  
"Maybe you should leave the doctoring to me, Colonel. I would think you have enough to worry about with your little war coming."  
  
"Maggie..."  
  
"Don't, John. I am not in the mood for more military crap. Defense, offense, negotiations...it's all a big game to you. You act like it's so serious, so dangerous, but you live for that, and don't try to tell me you don't." She glared at Hannibal, at the same time trying to soften her tone. "I know you're worried about him, I know you're trying to keep all of these men safe. But he needs to come out of this. The longer he's kept drugged, the harder it's going to be to get him back into the real world. I mean it, John. You take care of your problems. I'll take care of Face." She allowed a small smile. "In other words, trust me to do what I know, and I'll trust you to do what you know."  
  
"Deal, Maggie." He moved close to her, enveloped her in a hug. "I'm glad you're here. Very, very glad."  
  
"Well, I'm not so sure I'm glad, but I know I need to be." She laughed a little, then got serious again. "Mick was in, just after breakfast. Apparently he's not happy about more than a few things, but he was civil, anyway. Asked me, if I saw you first, to come to his office. Just off the library."  
  
Hannibal reluctantly released her and sighed. "Guess I'd better go, then. He and I have a lot to discuss."  
  
Maggie watched as he walked away, relaxing as she saw his shoulders straighten, his stride lighten. Much as she claimed to hate what they called the 'Jazz', she was glad to see it coming back.  
  
*****  
  
"Well, it always comes down to that. Fight, or flight. I have a dozen men who will obey orders no matter what. They've been with me for years and won't run away now. The others, well, I would prefer, quite frankly, to send them away before anything happens they shouldn't be witness to. They wouldn't make good soldiers anyway. So, coupled with your people, we have, what, eighteen men against whatever General Stockwell chooses to use.  
  
"The other option is flight. I can have you and your men flown out of here this afternoon, situated in a very nice chalet in Switzerland, by late tonight, if that's what you choose."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I have no intention of leaving my home, Colonel. I like it here. I will deal with Stockwell in my own way. And then I have some business matters to take care of. So I can once again enjoy my solitude in peace. And so my nephew is free to live his own life."  
  
Hannibal looked at Mick, long and hard. He had a pretty good idea what the man had in mind, but he didn't want to know any details. In another life, he would be taking this guy down, hard, but right now, his men were more important. Hannibal would work with the Devil himself if he could get the team to a safe place to regroup.  
  
"This isn't exactly what you had in mind when we arrived, is it, Mick?"  
  
"What do you mean, Colonel?"  
  
"The locked room. No vehicles. No phone. Just what did you have planned for us?"  
  
Mick chuckled. "I hadn't quite decided yet. I wanted you here until I did. An offer of employment had definitely entered my mind."  
  
"And if we turned that down?"  
  
"Well, there was always Stockwell, or the Feds. Or, to placate my nephew, I could have just let you go when you were ready."  
  
"Would you have turned him over to Stockwell?"  
  
"Of course not. In fact, I have every intention of convincing him to come back into the fold. He could be very useful to me now, after his experiences with the General."  
  
"Somehow I can't see Daryl working for you."  
  
Mick smiled, at ease. "You don't like me, do you, Colonel? In fact, you would love to see me locked up for a very long time, wouldn't you?"  
  
"It's what we do, Mick. Put away the bad guys. And you have to admit - you're definitely one of the bad guys."  
  
"Well, that depends on your point of view, doesn't it, Colonel? On the one hand, I supply terrorists with arms. On the other, I'm helping patriots, much like the French helped our own patriots back in 1778."  
  
"Our people didn't kill innocent women and children." Hannibal's voice was cold.  
  
"No, you're right. That didn't happen until we went after Indian land." Mick's voice was just as cold.  
  
"Excuse me, gentlemen, but we have a real problem." Randy stood at the door, looking murderous.  
  
"What?" Both men stood at the same time.  
  
"Kurt's missing."


	56. Chapter 56

The sun sent a near vertical shaft of heat down on Clifton's back as he watched the activities below him. A half hour before, he'd felt a quickening inside, when he saw the first of the jeeps, patrolling. The men in it were dressed casually, and would have been taken as modern ranch hands had it not been for the automatic rifles they carried. Not that they weren't discreet, but it was hard to hide rifles like that from binoculars.  
  
Luckily for Clifton, he hadn't yet left the main road when he heard the jeep, up in the hills. He continued on his way, as if going into La Venata; as soon as the patrol was out of sight, he swung back around and started scouting for a place to stash his own jeep. It was possible, of course, that a wealthy and eccentric landowner would arm his people with such weapons. Possible. But Clifton didn't really think so.  
  
By the time he had worked his way slowly to the top of the hill, he'd seen two more such jeeps. Marucchi was taking no chances. Clifton wondered, idly, if this was normal procedure or if someone had tipped him off that he was being hunted. Not that it mattered. It didn't change Clifton's goals. It just might take a little longer to accomplish.  
  
So now he was watching the ranch. He'd found a place, among a pile of rocks and dead trees, where he could see nearly the entire compound. He found the interaction among the men down there interesting. There were some who seemed to know exactly what to do, some who stood around, waiting to be told. He paid special attention to the former. They were dressed like the men in the jeeps, which put them slightly better off than the others, whose clothes looked well worn, dirty from actual labor. The difference between Marucchi's hand-picked men and the locals. Good to know that. Easier to know which ones to shoot, which ones to scare.  
  
And then he saw him.  
  
Talking with Marucchi's men. Going from group to group, pointing, discussing. Directing. Interesting. Well, that made sense. Daryl was family, but there could be resentment toward the prodigal son. Smith would be seen as a usurper to Mick. Baracus didn't have the temperament, and no way these guys would give Murdock the time of day. That left Randy or Kurt. And Randy didn't deal well with people who had a choice as to obeying or not. He expected obedience, demanded it. Kurt accepted by Marucchi's men? Sure.  
  
Kurt was perfect. Clifton had seen him in action. He could work with anyone, as long as they had the same goal. He could issue orders without seeming to, deal with military and civilians with the same aplomb. He knew when to push, when to lay back.  
  
Without him, any cooperation between Marucchi's people and Smith's would have to be dealt with by the leaders themselves, taking their concentration away from the real battle.  
  
From him.  
  
Clifton moved cautiously down the hill. He had to get closer. And he had to get Kurt away from the crowd.  
  
One by one...  
  
*****  
  
Kurt stopped for a moment, watching Mick's goons hurrying around, taking care of the orders he'd given them. He didn't like his new role here. Not at all. But it had been his own idea.  
  
Kurt had noticed something last night, as he watched Leandro and Daryl talking. Mick's head man did not like Daryl. He spoke to Daryl politely enough, apparently presuming Daryl's right to act on Mick's behalf, yet there was a stiffness to it. And there was something different about Daryl. Something Kurt had noticed after the two men had come back from their errand. Nothing obvious, but there, just the same. He seemed more...confident. More in his element. At home.  
  
The ease with which Daryl had assumed command last night just didn't seem right. Even after the Colonel had been informed of the possible threat, Daryl had not waited for him to call the shots. Almost immediately after telling Smith, Daryl had started giving Leandro orders, preparing for a possible assault on the villa. And for some reason, no one seemed surprised at that. It was as if this was no longer so much the team's problem as Mick's problem, and therefore Daryl would handle it.  
  
Kurt hadn't been sure he liked that idea, even as he went along with it. And he knew Leandro didn't like it one bit. Daryl was doing what Leandro, as Mick's right hand man, should have been doing. And something about Daryl's new demeanor told Kurt that he would not step down. Not until Mick got back. Kurt didn't know Leandro that well, but he knew the type. Knew how that kind of man would deal with a threat to his position, regardless of where that threat came from. The last thing anyone needed right now was a turf war.  
  
That's when Kurt decided he would have to get his hand in it. As soon as Leandro left, he got Daryl to one side, reminding him that Mick had people that should be talked to as soon as possible. People who were supposed to be protecting him. It was time for Daryl to do what he did best - gather information, deal with the bureaucrats. Kurt would work with the 'troops'. Exactly the combination that had worked so well for them with Stockwell. Daryl had agreed readily enough.  
  
So Kurt worked with the men, acting as a buffer between Daryl and Leandro, allowing the man to keep his pride. Keeping the jealousy from gestating into something more troublesome. Protecting Daryl without making him look weak. As long as no one realized what he was doing, it would work.  
  
And he hated every minute of it.  
  
Sighing, he started double-checking the arrangements. He was moving past the stable when he saw something that didn't look right. A couple cases of ammo that had been in the shade of the building had been moved out into the hot sun. That wasn't good. He headed over, wondering why anyone would be so stupid...  
  
*****  
  
Marucchi liked landscaping. Liked things looking nice. Bad for him, good for Clifton. It still wasn't easy to maneuver his way down the hill to the stable without being seen, but the cultivated greenery made it simpler. A locked side door to the stable popped open easily, and he slipped inside, leaving the door open just enough to watch his target.  
  
Kurt finished talking to one man, who seemed to be the one the others listened to most readily. Clifton noted the man's face carefully. One to watch for in particular. The man nodded, walked away, and Clifton's attention went back to Kurt. The man stood for some minutes, deep in thought. Turned to watch some men loading a jeep.  
  
Distracted. Working on automatic, not paying attention, not the way he should.  
  
Clifton spotted the cases of ammo sitting next to the stable, not far from his vantage point. Smiled. Making sure Kurt was still watching the jeep, he slipped out of the door, quickly shoved two cases out in the sun. Back in the stable.  
  
Waited.  
  
It only took a few minutes. The jeep took off, leaving Kurt standing there, alone. No one around him. Lady Luck was smiling on Clifton. Kurt turned, started walking away, looking around. Frowned when he saw the ammo cases. Started walking toward them. Picked them up, one in each hand, moved to the stable.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Kurt caught the motion behind him as he bent to put the cases down in the shade. Hands full, no chance to grab his gun. Saw the face of his attacker just as the man's gun connected with his head.  
  
Kurt went down like a sack of rocks, and was quickly dragged into the stables. Five minutes later, he was tied, gagged, and buried under a large pile of loose straw in a far corner.  
  
Clifton retraced his steps to the pile of rocks on the hill. Waited for the fun to begin.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal and Mick stood, a few feet apart, watching the activity in the yard behind the villa. It had been Leandro who had discovered that Kurt was missing. Had gone looking for him, to clarify a problem with logistics, and got nervous when no one had seen him for some time. After a cursory search of his own, he had alerted the household.  
  
Hannibal had noted, with interest, the near shock on Mick's face when Daryl openly defied his uncle and joined the rest of the men in the search. Shock, anger, and moments later, a small smile of what Hannibal could only conclude was satisfaction. He filed that away for later consideration.  
  
His own concerns were for the missing man and the rest of his team. Quickly, tersely, he paired Randy with Daryl, BA and Murdock, Frankie with Leandro. Under no circumstances, and he repeated this forcibly, was anyone to go off on a wild goose chase by themselves. If they saw anything suspicious, they were to alert the rest of the searchers. No heroics, no attitude. He looked directly at Randy and Daryl when he said the last. There was a moment's hesitation from the pair, before the professional in each accepted the order.  
  
Hannibal watched for another minute, making sure his men were behaving themselves. With a nod to Mick's continued supervision, he turned and left.  
  
His pace increased as he moved toward Face's room.  
  
*****  
  
Maggie was also watching the commotion surrounding the villa, from Face's veranda. She was worried, knowing something was wrong, not knowing what. Instinctively, she backed into the room, closed and bolted the French doors leading out. After a second's hesitation, she closed the heavy Spanish drapes. Turning, she shook her head at her precautions. She didn't need to get spooked, not now.  
  
Just the same, she wished she weren't alone with Face.  
  
She moved over to the bed, stumbling a little in the now dark room. She fumbled for the lamp by the bed, relieved when she finally found the switch and a warm glow of light filled the room. She didn't flip on the fluorescent lamp over the bed. It was too cold, clinical, and right now she wanted something... homey.  
  
She looked down at Face, noting his lips were dry again. He was still talking to himself, the words too slurred and soft to make out. Gently she massaged Vaseline over his lips, noting unhappily the now familiar reaction. He immediately quieted and his whole body stiffened. When she finished and removed her hand, his body trembled violently for a second or two before relaxing. Another minute, and the mumbling started up again.  
  
She wished she could make out what he was saying. What was going on, inside. What made him react that way to her touch. She would be better prepared for what might happen when he finally came to. But that could be damn near anything. Hannibal had stayed a long time last night, telling everything that had happened after Face had left the hospital to be returned to Langley.  
  
She had listened impassively, her professional demeanor deliberately in place, but inside she was seething. Angry and sympathetic at the same time, toward all of them. Well, there was no sympathy for Stockwell. The root cause of all of this. But for the rest...She even felt more kindly toward Randy, which was a shock to her. But he had been as much a victim in all of this as Face had been. No wonder he was so angry.  
  
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the door to the bedroom suddenly opened. Professional demeanor forgotten, she allowed herself to be held, secure, in Hannibal's arms. Let someone else worry about things, just for a few minutes.


	57. Chapter 57

Clifton watched from his hideaway as the men searched the grounds. He noticed with amusement that Smith's people stayed in pairs. As if that would stop him. He wondered how long that would last. Not that it mattered. With Kurt missing, no one would be leaving.  
  
He had all the time in the world.  
  
He didn't worry about anyone finding his hostage. Not only was he completely covered with loose hay, he was stashed in a corner surrounded by bales of it. And Clifton was an expert at tying knots; the gag was so tight, Kurt would be lucky if he could swallow, let alone make any noise. The thought crossed his mind that the man could possibly choke to death under those circumstances, but he dismissed it. Whether Kurt survived his captivity was of little consequence to Clifton. The object was to get to Randy and Sam. As the others disappeared, one by one, eventually his real quarry would present themselves. If he could get to them early on, so much the better.  
  
He had spotted Randy almost immediately. Paired with Daryl. That was quite the combination. With the exception of Sam, those two were the most dangerous to him. Smith, coupled with any of those three, would be formidable. Baracus and the pilot were probably next. He didn't worry at all about Santana or the man with him. In fact, he probably would deal with Santana next, just to get the him out of the way. Then again, it could be entertaining to see Smith work with only Santana left to him.  
  
Clifton thought about Sam. He wasn't out there with the rest of them. Clifton had a pretty good idea why. The witness reports from the airport had said someone had been taken from the plane on a gurney. Now he knew who. He smiled in satisfaction. He had a special plan for Sam. He absently rubbed his neck, where there were still marks from the rope. Yeah, he had very special plans for Sam, and the idea that he was already injured just added spice to the sauce.  
  
It didn't take long for the men below to cover the immediate area and the buildings. Gradually the entire group converged in front of the huge stone patio. Ah, Marucchi himself coming out to speak to the troops. Wish he could hear what the Great Man was saying...wait. Something odd...  
  
Clifton let his binoculars rove over to the side, along the east wing of the villa, down toward the far end of the building. Something hadn't looked quite right...there. The last set of French doors.  
  
Clifton put the binoculars down, puzzled. Curtains drawn in the middle of the day? Now, if all of them were, he could understand that. Keeping out the heat of the day. But one? That didn't make sense...  
  
Clifton suddenly smiled. Brought the glasses up once more, studying the oddity, smile getting bigger. The curtains were being pulled aside. Yes. Smith. Talking to someone behind him. Moving away from the doors now.  
  
Lady Luck was definitely in his corner today. If he had looked a minute later, he never would have known...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal reluctantly released Maggie, stepping back just a bit. Maggie quickly composed herself, became the professional once more.  
  
"What's going on out there?"  
  
"Kurt's missing. We think..." Hannibal stopped short, looking around the dark room. "Did you close those?" He hurried over to the French doors, grabbing the curtains.  
  
"Yes, I did. Silly, I know, but I..." Maggie stopped suddenly, as Hannibal roughly pulled the curtains back, letting the sun stream in once more.  
  
"Turn out the light, Maggie." Hannibal took a quick glance outside, knowing even as he did that he wouldn't see anyone. "I understand, Maggie, I really do. But we can't do anything to draw attention to this room."  
  
Realization dawned. "Oh, God, John, I'm sorry! I never thought..."  
  
"It's okay, Maggie. Were they closed long?"  
  
"No, maybe five minutes."  
  
"Okay, whoever's out there may not have noticed. It's a big place..." He looked over at Maggie, saw the stricken look on her face. "I'm sure they wouldn't have noticed it, Maggie. I'll have someone stay here with you and Face, just in case, though. Don't worry about it. I should have let you know what was going on sooner."  
  
"What is going on? You said Kurt was missing?"  
  
Hannibal nodded. "He was out with the men, getting things organized, and he just disappeared. All the men are looking for him. But it's obvious that whoever was checking out the property records has found us. They must have found Kurt alone and grabbed him."  
  
"You don't suppose they..."  
  
"I doubt it. I would think they'd want to use him as a bargaining chip."  
  
"Do you know who it is, exactly? Is it Stockwell?"  
  
"I'm certain it's Stockwell. Well, his Ables. Which ones, I have no idea. Not yet. But whoever it is, is damn good. To sneak right up to the house like this and snatch a man, and then just disappear..." Hannibal stopped, suddenly scowling. "I think I know who it is. Damn it! It's got to be." He turned to Maggie, and took her by the shoulders. "Listen. I want you to lock this door. Remember the last code word?"  
  
"Yes. Silverbird." Maggie watched him, getting more and more frightened by him. "John, who..."  
  
"I think it's John Clifton. It's got to be. And that means we're in deep shit if we don't play this very carefully. So you do not open this door for anyone without the code word. And, even if they know the code word, if you don't recognize the voice, don't open it. Not even a crack."  
  
"What about the veranda? He could get in there..."  
  
"Just listen. I'm going to send BA in to stay with you two. And I'll station a couple men outside - not too close, so they give away your location, but close enough. And one last thing, Maggie. We're going to have to move you two out of here. Get you someplace where you're not so vulnerable. If possible, off the ranch completely, but I don't think that's going to happen. But get him ready, just in case."  
  
"John, he can't..."  
  
"He's going to have to, Maggie. You're not safe in here, not any more. So get ready, both of you." Hannibal hurried to the door, mind racing. "BA will be here in a few minutes. Remember, the code word." He stepped out, waited until he heard the lock snap, and strode away.  
  
He angrily considered that there might not be any reason to continue the search for Kurt...  
  
*****  
  
Clifton watched the men for a while longer. Marucchi had still been talking to them, mostly Daryl and the guy that had been with Santana, when Smith came out. Clifton smiled. Smith hadn't look happy. He pulled his men, along with Mick, to one side and talked at length with them. Finally, Baracus had gone into the house, along with Marucchi and Smith, while the rest of the men dispersed, heading for the jeeps.  
  
Clifton had known he should get out of there, before the search party started fanning out. But something made him stay. He kept looking at that room at the end of the villa. Two men were stationed outside now; granted, some distance from the house itself, but he knew what they were for. Baracus hadn't come out of the house again; he must be in with Peck. He pulled the binoculars away from the doors, moved around the walls outside, up to the roof. Ah, yes. That's what he was looking for. Moved his view along the roof, to the near end.  
  
Perfect.  
  
He knew he should get out before his line of retreat was cut off. But he couldn't resist.  
  
It was just too easy.  
  
*****  
  
BA stood to one side of the French doors, looking out with a keen eye. He could see Mick's two men, several yards away, pacing back and forth. It didn't make him feel any safer. If Hannibal was right about Kurt's abductor, those two wouldn't stand a chance.  
  
He backed away from the doors, looked around the room yet another time, as if anything had changed in the last five minutes. He'd checked the room out thoroughly before, and the only two ways in were the doors, and they were covered. Still, he felt uneasy. They were missing something. Something that dude Clifton wouldn't miss.  
  
He glanced over toward Maggie, who was tending to Face. He'd watched the ritual several times now, and had to admit it didn't help his nerves. Every time she touched him... And that damn whispering. All the time. He just never, never stopped. After several hours of listening to that, BA wanted to go over and...He shook his head. Just ignore it. Ignore it.  
  
"Are you all right, BA?" Maggie was looking at him with that look that said, "Don't even try to fool me, mister." He tried anyway.  
  
"I'm fine. Nothin wrong with me."  
  
"Then why are you clenching your fists so tight? And pacing? That's not like you, BA."  
  
BA squirmed, but kept quiet.  
  
"It's not just this Clifton person, is it?" Maggie stepped away from the bed, looked down at Face. "It's him, isn't it? The way he's acting?"  
  
"He gonna be okay, Maggie? I mean, is he gonna be Face again? Ever?" There. It was out.  
  
"I wish I could say yes, BA. I really do. But I just don't know. He should come out of this withdrawal okay. But he had a lot of serious problems before that. Stockwell and that Barish really messed him up. I doubt that's going to magically disappear. But I've been thinking about it, BA. I haven't come up with a solid solution yet, but I have some ideas. We just have to get through the next week or so, and then we can start working on the rest. In the meantime..." She stopped, frowned. "Did you hear something?"  
  
They stood still, listening. There was a scratching noise coming from somewhere. BA quickly stepped to the patio doors, looked outside. Calm. Everybody where they belonged.  
  
"BA! The fireplace!"  
  
BA twisted around, staring appalled at the fireplace. Smoke was rapidly swirling into the room. Small, smoking embers started dropping down from the chimney. In moments, the room was filled with thick, black smoke.  
  
"BA!" Maggie was trying to pull the IV bag from the hook, frantically waving at the smoke with her other hand.  
  
BA rushed over, grabbed the bag and shoved it into Maggie's hands. Fighting the tears running from his stinging eyes, he grabbed Face and slung him roughly over his shoulder. He tried to see the interior door, next to the fireplace, but the smoke was too thick. He grabbed Maggie's arm and pulled her toward the veranda. Without stopping, he kicked the glass doors open, and the three of them stumbled out.  
  
The two guards came running, attention on the three people who crumpled to the ground, surrounded by the smoke which was billowing out of the room. They never looked to the roof.  
  
By the time Hannibal and Mick came running, the two guards were already dead, a single burst of automatic fire cutting them down. BA and Maggie sprawled on the ground, coughing and choking. Face lay next to BA, where he'd slid from BA's shoulder.  
  
He didn't make a sound.


	58. Chapter 58

Marucchi's men were out of practice, just as Clifton had expected. All who had not left on the search raced to the scene, leaving no one guarding the remainder of the compound. Clifton could have walked out.  
  
As it was, the only people he had to worry about were the men in the jeeps. Most had heard the gunfire echoing through the hills, and were tearing back, expecting to find a full fledged assault on Marucchi. Clifton had to dodge under cover a couple of times, but otherwise was able to return to his own hidden jeep without a problem.  
  
He drove leisurely into the village of La Venata and booked a room in an obvious tourist trap. Overpriced and ill-kept, but with enough people coming and going that another stranger was just, another stranger.  
  
He sat in the nearby bar, sipping a stale but cold beer, musing on all he had accomplished in such a short time. Smiled. Began planning his next move.  
  
Which one this time?  
  
*****  
  
Maggie softly closed the door to Face's new room, leaving BA dozing on the cot that had been brought in. The two men would be sharing the 'sick room' for a while. Maggie had been moved into the room next to them, and Dr. Perea had left a nurse in charge of all three victims. Hannibal took Maggie's arm, although she protested that she was just fine. She also noted his anxious glance at the room she'd just left.  
  
"He'll be okay, John. We'll just have to watch him for a few days."  
  
Hannibal and Mick had rushed to the yard outside the bedroom at the sound of gunfire, surrounded by Mick's bodyguards. Mick had immediately gone to his slain men, cursing a mile a minute. Hannibal, assured by a nod from BA that he and Maggie were relatively unharmed, had moved to Face. Face wasn't breathing. Hannibal's turn to swear as he quickly tilted his lieutenant's head back and blew into his mouth. Nothing. He continued forcing air into his friend, barely hearing Mick shouting for his medics. It seemed like seconds later he was being pulled aside so Mick's people could work on Face. It seemed like hours later they finally got him breathing again.  
  
Dr. Perea had come quickly, and examined them all. He was confident they would all recover, although Hannibal wasn't reassured when the nurse was brought in to watch for complications. Dr. Perea had not been happy about the havoc wreaked on Face's shoulder. The healing had suffered a serious setback. He had gone, muttering about the lack of proper care of 'his' patient.  
  
Hannibal was now convinced they had to get Face off the sedatives as quickly as possible. Not being conscious enough to hold his breath, he had inhaled more of the smoke than either BA or Maggie. Paranoid or not, Hannibal needed him conscious and at least somewhat able to help defend himself.  
  
He and Mick had also sent the men to search the immediate area again, not only for the assailant but for Kurt as well. The men were ordered to search every inch of the yard and buildings, no matter how unlikely it seemed. After checking out the roof, they were convinced there had been only one man, and he had obviously not had time to take Kurt off into the hills. It had taken time to gather and carry the green wood up to the roof, fashion it into a bundle and drop it down the chimney. Hannibal had angrily tossed away the piece of metal that had been placed over the chimney, effectively acting as a damper and forcing the smoke into the room below.  
  
Only one man could have carried out something like that, unseen and unheard.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt slowly opened his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was looking at, at first. Then he realized it was straw. Lots of straw. The gag in his mouth, coupled with the dust, was making it hard to breathe, and he had to fight down the panic. He blew out through his nose. Gross, but effective. He could breathe a little easier. He couldn't swallow very well, and the saliva building up from the gag made him feel like he was drowning. Carefully he made himself work it down. He'd be damned if he was going to choke to death under a pile of hay.  
  
Okay. Take inventory now. Besides the gag, his arms were bound to his sides, hands uselessly separated from each other, the rope between them running across his backside. Legs tied, tightly, at the knees and ankles. He could try rolling, if he knew which direction to go. He could end up just further back, wasting effort and air. He tilted his head, wincing at the sharp stab of pain when he moved it. Damn. There was barely enough light filtering through the loose straw to let him see a couple inches around him. Okay. Slowly, he made himself roll over onto his back, and painfully turned his head the other way. Hard to tell for sure, but it looked like it was darker that way.  
  
He closed his eyes, realized it was harder to breathe on his back, rolled back over. The effort was almost too much. He blew out of his nose again, but it didn't seem to help as much as it had before. Any physical effort at all made his lungs yell for more air, and he couldn't get enough.  
  
Looking into the straw, Kurt decided. If he just stayed here, he would suffocate. Choke. Die. At the least, he could die trying to live. He took as deep a breath as he could, he closed his eyes and began rolling.  
  
*****  
  
Randy was staring out the window, watching the search parties. He hadn't gone with them this time; there was no reason to. Hannibal was still insisting they work in groups, and with BA out of the picture, Murdock had paired with Santana. One more pair of eyes under those circumstances wouldn't matter. Either they would find Kurt this time, alive, or they would find him later, dead.  
  
What mattered now was finding Clifton. Randy was quite sure he'd left the ranch. Two strikes, two very bold strikes, was pushing the envelope far enough, even for the best. No, Clifton was either hiding out in the hills, or in La Venata. Considering the man's lifestyle, Randy figured he was in town. He wouldn't rough it unless absolutely necessary. That, however, would be as far as the soft life would go. He would find someplace to stay out of the way, where he would be overlooked, wouldn't attract too much attention from anyone. No fancy hotel with fawning clerks. Someplace where he would just pay his money and then be ignored along with all the other penny-pinching tourists.  
  
Randy glanced behind him, through the bedroom door, seeing Smith marching into the library, where Mick and Daryl were already closeted, going over plans. For a moment, the Three Stooges danced across Randy's mind. But only for a moment. He knew that those in the library were three of the most experienced and determined men in this part of the country. Unfortunately, they each had their deficiencies. Smith, brilliant and unconventional, was too involved in the welfare of his men. He had too many worries, clouding his judgment, unfocusing his mind. Mick was too used to gang warfare. He didn't have the experience of dealing with just one man. Daryl was probably the one most likely to deal effectively with Clifton, with his experiences under Stockwell. But, like Smith, he was too concerned with his partner.  
  
So it would be up to Randy. Randy would have to track down Clifton and dispose of him, one way or the other. So the others would be safe. Randy was used to this kind of game. And Randy had no distractions. Not any more.  
  
He looked to his side, at Baracus, dozing on his cot. On the other side, Sam, not quite sleeping, not quite awake, oxygen mask obscuring most of his face. Except his eyes. And even through the haze, Randy could see the suspicion in them. Randy had tried to talk to him earlier, tried to reassure him. The reaction was startling, although Maggie had warned him. He just hadn't believed it would happen. Not with him. And that's when he'd known.  
  
He knew Sam was never coming back.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt was on his side. He was suffocating, slowly. He couldn't draw in enough air, no matter how hard he tried. He wasn't sure how far he'd managed to roll along the rough floor, fighting through straw, the sharp ends cutting into his face. He'd finally had to stop, running into a bale. Defeated, he'd rested his forehead against the rough side, exhausted.  
  
He was quite sure he was hallucinating, when he heard the sound of men scuffling around, somewhere ahead of him. But then the darkness started diminishing and he heard grumbling and mutterings in Spanish. With one last effort, he screamed through the gag, coughing and retching.  
  
A few minutes later, he felt hands on his body, a knife cutting through the ropes, freeing him. He breathed in deeply as the gag was removed, coughing out the dryness. He looked up long enough to see Mick's men frowning down at him, and then gave himself up to restful unconsciousness.  
  
*****  
  
Maggie had insisted she was well enough to take care of the newest casualty. She realized that Dr. Perea was quite competent, but frankly, the fewer men associated with Mick she saw, the better she felt. And as soon as she had all three injured men in condition to travel, they were all out of here.  
  
BA was already up and grumbling about the restrictions she'd put on him. It was good that she was feeling better; the nurse was scared to death of the man, and he would have bulled his way right through her. Maggie laid down the law, and BA meekly consented to sitting on the main patio, nursing his pride.  
  
Kurt was recovering quickly, his main complaint being very stiff and sore muscles. A long hot shower, lots of tea, and a comfortable bed were all he really needed, or wanted. He slept now in the bedroom Maggie had occupied, Daryl pretending to read in the chair not far from the bed.  
  
The nurse sat up nervously as Maggie opened the door to Face's room. She looked at the bed and stood, speaking quickly in Spanish. Maggie shook her head; she spoke it well enough to help her patients, but she wasn't fluent enough to keep up with this.  
  
"Por favor, señorita, reducir la velocidad. No puedo entenderle." Maggie reached out with her hand, trying to calm the woman.  
  
"El doctor dijo que este hombre fue perjudicado. Nadie dijo que él era loco. No quiero que nada haga con él. ¡Me marcho! ¡Ahora!" The nurse pushed past Maggie, practically slamming the door behind her.  
  
Maggie sighed. She'd caught enough of that to know what was wrong. She moved quietly over to the bed, wondering what had happened now.  
  
"Face?"  
  
He was staring up at her, eyes struggling to focus. With his right hand, he was pulling the quilt into a tight bundle.  
  
"Face?"  
  
He mumbled something, pulling the quilt up toward his chest.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"...find them...can't...find them..."  
  
"Can't find who, Face? Who can't you find?"  
  
"...all gone...all...dead..."  
  
Maggie closed her eyes, sighing deeply. They had to get him out of here. Had to take him somewhere that he would get help. And she thought she knew exactly where.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock watched, silently, as Randy meandered around the yard. Only Murdock had noticed that he was moving further and further from the house, closer and closer to the hills beyond the yard. He knew what Randy was doing, and why. He knew he should stop him. Or go with him. Or tell Hannibal. But he also knew it was something Randy had to do, and that the team couldn't have anything to do with it. Knew Randy understood that. So he did nothing. Just watched, silently, as Randy moved further and further from the house, until he disappeared into the landscape.  
  
Murdock wondered if they would ever see him again.


	59. Chapter 59

He watched the plaza. Everyone who came in, walked out, passed by. He knew this was the place. It had taken all day to find it. But he had found it, just as he'd known he would.  
  
It hadn't taken Randy long to find where the jeep had been hidden, out at the ranch. Just looked for the type of place he himself would've hidden it, the place he would have chosen had he been coming down the road toward the ranch. Once he'd determined what kind of vehicle Clifton was driving from the tracks, the rest was just a matter of keeping his eyes open. He'd hitched a ride into town and began walking the streets.  
  
The man wasn't infallible. He'd parked the jeep just a little too close to the hotel. Hadn't washed it first. Left enough evidence on it to confirm who had had it, where it had been. There were four small hotels within escaping distance, all tourist traps, all with enough traffic to keep people anonymous. A few American dollars to each desk clerk earned him access to the hotel records. Looked for a single male checking in during a certain time frame.  
  
Randy hit pay dirt on the third one. Room on the second floor, with a balcony. Another few dollars confirmed that the man was still in his room. Randy wandered outside, around the building, found the room. Looked from the balcony to where the jeep was parked.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Moved to the small cantina across the street from the hotel. Eventually Clifton would have to come out. To put his next move into action.  
  
And Randy would be waiting.  
  
*****  
  
Mick had sent some men into town to check around. He had a lot of friends in La Venata and a lot of people who would sell their own brother if Mick told them to. Unfortunately, some of the local workers had been to town first, told about the shooting. The strange men at the ranch. It was one thing to help out the man who had invested so much money into the local economy, who had such 'influential' friends; it was another to get caught in the middle of a war between foreigners. People apologetically shook their heads. They hadn't seen anyone. They wouldn't in the future.  
  
Mick knew his people were being lied to. Nothing he could do about it; not now, anyway. There would be an object lesson, later on. Once this business was taken care of. Once the man who had dared to attack a Marucchi was taken care of.  
  
In the meantime, he had his nephew to worry about. Daryl hadn't left his partner's side since they'd found him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that Mick knew Kurt didn't approve of him. And Kurt had a great deal of influence over his nephew. Mick wanted Daryl working for him. That wouldn't happen with Kurt around. Or these other men. Colonel Smith was someone else Daryl admired. And Smith didn't approve of Mick, either.  
  
This man, this man who had such audacity and such cunning to attack him and get away, was not after Mick. Would not be after Daryl if he hadn't been with Colonel Smith. And Smith was wanted by General Stockwell.  
  
Mick had been truthful with Smith when he'd said he hadn't decided what to do with them. He still hadn't decided.  
  
But he was close.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal listened carefully to Maggie. He wasn't liking what she was saying, but it made sense. But there were problems with it. Major problems.  
  
"Stockwell will have people watching him. Not to mention the military. We might be able to get Face in, but then what? The number of people involved - we couldn't possibly guarantee that no one would talk."  
  
"John, these are..."  
  
"I know that, but there are others. Maintenance people, volunteers, temporary workers. Visitors. A spy could be sent in and we'd never know it. And then we'd lose him."  
  
Maggie sighed. Here we go again. Strategy. "I know there will be obstacles, John. But I don't see that we have any other choice. We need to at least contact him, see if he's willing to help. Maybe he has some ideas on logistics."  
  
"What would he know about..."  
  
"John, Face is not going to trust you. Not now. He's not going to trust me, or Murdock, or BA or even Randy. He doesn't know who's going to tell him the truth. But he will trust one person. Whether he wants to or not. Because it's part of him. More than any false memories. Even more than the team is. No matter what his conscious mind tells him, regardless of what he wants to believe, Face will listen to him. He might fight it, but eventually he will believe it's the truth, because he knows, deep down, that Father Magill would never, ever lie to him."  
  
Hannibal looked at Maggie, his mind on all the problems her scheme involved. Getting Face back to LA in itself could be tricky, especially if he was as paranoid as he had been. How could they get him to stay at the orphanage? How could they keep anyone from finding out he was there? What would they do if someone did find out? What if it was Stockwell? What if it were the military? What if Father Magill couldn't make him remember? What if...  
  
Hannibal stood, stepped toward the bed. Face was awake, impassive other than his right hand clenching the quilt. Tightly. He remained calm until Hannibal got within a couple feet of the bed; although his face remained calm, his whole body went rigid, began trembling. Hannibal sighed, moved toward the door.  
  
"I'll call him this afternoon."  
  
*****  
  
Randy didn't move. He kept his head bent over the newspaper, eyes looking just over the edge. Watched as Clifton sauntered out of the hotel and stood, casually glancing over the crowd. As Clifton turned toward him, Randy looked down, not moving his head, just hiding his eyes. People always felt when they were being watched. He counted to three, looked up again. Clifton was moving down the street, away from the jeep. Randy waited until he turned the corner before he stood and maneuvered to the other side of the street. He stayed on the opposite side from Clifton, moving at a steady pace, matching that of the people around him. Sometimes he would be behind his quarry, sometimes just ahead, always people, cars, trucks between them.  
  
Clifton, for his part, was doing everything right. Stopping abruptly to look in shop windows, seeing who was behind him. Darting into a store. Randy didn't let that spook him. He just slowed his pace, ever so slightly, knowing that Clifton would come back out when no one came in after him. Randy was in no hurry to take care of him right away. He knew he could keep him from hurting any of the team. That's all that mattered for the immediate future.  
  
Otherwise, Randy had all the time in the world.  
  
*****  
  
He watched, impassively, as the two spoke in the corner. They seemed to be arguing. About him? Maybe. Didn't matter. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing much he could do about anything. He'd tried earlier, when she had stepped out for a moment, to get out of bed. His shoulder told him he was going nowhere. He'd only managed to get resettled when she returned. He must have been pale, because she had frowned and come over immediately, checking his pulse and forehead. And the minute she'd touched him, he'd felt himself start shaking, his whole body going stiff. He didn't understand why; he just did. As soon as she moved away, his heart slowed down and he felt himself relax. The same thing happened when any of them came near him.  
  
His body was trying to warn him. As if he would have trusted them anyway. Although, so far, they had done nothing to him. In fact, they had been quite solicitous. Maybe they knew he was no threat to them. He would let them keep thinking that. Until he was better. Until he could manage on his own.  
  
Until he could figure out what the hell they wanted.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt had managed to make it out to the patio with a little help from Daryl. He was still stiff and sore, but he was more angry than anything. His humor hadn't been improved when he'd heard of the second attack, and the word 'incompetence' was heard clearly, when he was told Clifton had not been found yet.  
  
Mick only managed to hold his temper at that. He was walking a thin line now, but one he was used to. In his business, dissolving loyalties was a frequent endeavor. The more aggressive and even rude his opponent became, the more polite and reasonable he became. It usually didn't take long for the one he wanted on his side to see the disparity, and gradually come to see Mick's side of things. With Kurt physically hurting and angry already, it shouldn't be all that difficult to win his nephew back.  
  
"I would hardly call it incompetence," he said, mildly. "This man is very clever, and working alone. It's very easy to disappear in a town the size of La Venata. We'll find him. And make him pay for his tricking you."  
  
"He didn't 'trick' me; he ambushed me! And if your men hadn't been so blind, they would have seen him sneaking into the compound." Kurt flushed, angry not only at Mick's insult, but at his own laxness.  
  
"True. And I have dealt with my men's deficiencies. My apologies to you for your injuries."  
  
Kurt said nothing, just looked angrily away. Daryl looked from his friend to his uncle and back. "Come on, Kurt, you know how Clifton operates. Mick hasn't dealt with him before; we have."  
  
"If I had known we were dealing with Clifton..."  
  
"Exactly. No one knew what to expect. Now we do, and we won't be caught short again. Any of us."  
  
Kurt scowled and tried to settle more comfortably in the lounge. Mick smiled as he headed into the house, giving Daryl a pat on the back as he passed. Daryl gave him a small smile in return, before going over to Kurt.  
  
Mick kept his smile as he headed for the library, and yet another meeting with Smith.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had just hung up the phone when Mick came in. He wasn't surprised that service had suddenly been restored on the Don's return to the ranch. He was only glad he had completed his business before Mick had overheard anything. If Mick wondered about the call, he said nothing. Hannibal knew he would find out who he'd called eventually. That didn't matter. Hannibal just wasn't prepared to let him in on their latest plans just yet.  
  
Before Mick could make any comment, Leandro came hurrying in, looking angry. Murdock was right behind him. There was a flurry of Spanish between Mick and Leandro that Hannibal didn't even try to follow.  
  
"One of your men is missing, Colonel. Randy. Leandro says no one has seen him for several hours."  
  
Damn it! Hannibal couldn't believe Clifton had acted again so quickly, and was even more incredulous that he'd taken out Randy.  
  
"He left on his own, Colonel." Murdock had the grace to blush, unable to look at Hannibal directly.  
  
"What do you mean, Captain? When? Why?"  
  
"A few hours ago. I saw him leave. And you know why. I figured it was best to just let him go."  
  
"Without telling me?"  
  
"You would have tried to stop him, and that wouldn't have done anyone any good. He'd have just gone later. I figured the sooner he was gone, the better." Murdock looked straight at Hannibal then, and both men knew what he was talking about.  
  
"All right, Murdock. We won't worry about him. If any one can take care of themselves, it's Randy." He turned to Mick. "We won't need to find the man who attacked us. We need only worry about the security out here. Just in case he gets away from Randy."  
  
"You're that confident of your man?"  
  
"Unfortunately, Mick, I am."


	60. Chapter 60

They heard the explosion clearly. A handful of Mick's men, led by Daryl and Kurt, took off to check it out. The rest closed ranks around the house and outbuildings. Leandro was the only one of the men who hurried in to check on the occupants of the house. They had learned their lesson.  
  
BA was in with Face, and immediately shoved the two solid boards against the window frames and slammed the bar across. His assault rifle found itself aimed at the door. Moments later there was a sharp rap at the door.  
  
"Okay, BA?" Murdock on the other side.  
  
"Yeah. What's goin on?"  
  
"Don't know yet. I'll let you know when it's clear."  
  
BA settled back, got more comfortable. It would be a long wait. Not knowing what was going on out there, not knowing if this was a ruse to draw the men away from the house, not knowing if Mick's men would do what they were supposed to...and then there was Face.  
  
He glanced over at him now, quickly returning his gaze back to the door. He thought he'd seen Face at the worst he possibly could, back there at the cabin; now he thought different. Face hadn't said a word the whole time BA had been in the room. Maggie said he'd been silent ever since coming completely out of the sedative. Not only that, but he had no expression on his face at all. None. Just sat up against the pillows, staring at anyone and everyone who came in. If anyone came close, that damn shaking started. And that's what was the weirdest. Even then, he didn't look scared or nervous or nothing. Just shook, and stared.  
  
No, he wasn't just staring. BA tempted another quick glance. There was something there. Like Hannibal when he was making up one of his plans against a really bad piece of work. But different. No glint of fun, no Jazz, like Hannibal always had. Something...lightless.  
  
BA didn't know what it was, exactly; he just knew he didn't like it looking at him.  
  
*****  
  
Clifton had made one excursion from the hotel that day, to a small bistro down the block. He'd eaten, drank a little, and sauntered back to the hotel as if he hadn't a care in the world. Randy had moved to the back of the hotel, watching the lighted doors behind the balcony. Finally, long after the other hotel lights had gone out, Clifton's room also went dark. Randy stayed by the jeep, just in case, but Clifton never budged the rest of the night. Randy made himself as comfortable as possible, in the front seat of a derelict truck, waking at every little noise.  
  
Dawn was just hinted at when Randy was aroused by the sound of fast footsteps going past the truck. The cab was high enough that he wasn't worried about being seen; by looking past the top of the dash, he could see the jeep ahead of him, and Clifton checking it over briskly. Randy glanced to his left, where the decrepit Dodge had pulled in last night. After the driver had staggered down the street, Randy had made a quick check of the vehicle, making sure there was plenty of gas in it. Moments after Clifton drove away in the jeep, Randy had the Dodge hotwired and was following.  
  
Clifton made two stops. One at an ancient dry goods store on the outskirts of town, returning to the jeep with several packages. The next at a sporting goods store, where he came out with one small package. He made one last stop, for breakfast at the same small bistro as last night, before returning to the hotel. It took two trips for him to carry all his purchases in. Between trips, Randy quickly and quietly made his way up the decorative railing, and placed himself on the balcony next to Clifton's room. By peeking around the corner of the privacy wall, he could see nearly all of the room. Including the small kitchenette.  
  
As he watched Clifton's preparations, he caught his breath. Clifton had sorted out all of his packages; most of the contents Randy couldn't quite make out, but he definitely recognized the small propane tank and bucket. When Clifton began carefully tearing open instant ice packs and spreading the contents on baking sheets, Randy knew what he was doing. And it scared the hell out of him.  
  
But Clifton remained calm, relaxed. He carefully spread the contents from the ice packs on baking sheets, fresh from the store. Popped it into the oven as if it were a cake mix. Mixed a drink. Damn, that made Randy nervous. He never drank hard liquor on the job. All things considered, he might give up drinking altogether. He glanced behind him; no movement from the neighbor's apartment. That would be all he needed.  
  
Randy continued to watch the activities in the apartment for only a short while. When Clifton began packing the dried ammonium nitrate around the propane tank in the bucket, he knew he had only a few minutes. He quickly shimmied down the rail and hurried to the jeep. He couldn't do anything overt, but he had to make sure two things happened. One, that the jeep got safely out of town. Two, that it didn't make it to the ranch. Randy quickly whipped open the hood. A slight adjustment to the carburetor should do it.  
  
He hoped.  
  
He had just time to regain his own vehicle when Clifton came around the corner, gingerly carrying a large box. Randy held his breath as the box was carefully seated in the back of the jeep. Now came the tricky part.  
  
Making sure Clifton got his bomb safely out of town.  
  
*****  
  
He'd heard the explosion. He watched curiously as the black guy slammed the boards shut on the windows and took a defensive stance, facing the door. Heard the knock, the muffled voice on the other side. Then it was quiet again.  
  
He smiled to himself at the nervousness of his 'guard'. Guard? Or guardian? He wondered about that for a moment, not really caring. It made no difference to his plans.  
  
His plans. His alone. He'd heard the pilot telling the black guy that 'Randy' had left. It didn't surprise him. He'd known some time ago that he would be on his own. When he'd felt the bullet hit him. When the men he'd considered his had done nothing to stop it. Before the blackness had taken him, and held him, he'd known. He would have to take care of himself, depend on no one. Trust no one.  
  
The noise of the explosion had startled him, but the attack itself hadn't. He'd known as well as the rest of them that another attempt would be made by the other side to take him. And he knew the people here would prevent it. He was their prize. They had plans for him, that he knew. They expected him to go along with them. They would force him, if necessary. So he had to make plans of his own. Plans for the near future, when he wasn't able to move on his own. And plans for later, when he was able to deal with his own enemies.  
  
And he had plenty of those.  
  
*****  
  
Randy's little adjustment to the jeep worked like a charm, although he'd had some moments along the way. The way Clifton drove with that thing in back...He'd been able to stay back, out of clear view of the jeep. He knew, basically, where Clifton was heading, and was able to keep track of the dust cloud ahead of him. The jeep was nearly at the ranch turnoff when it slowed to a sudden stop. Randy knew the time had come. This would be Clifton's last attempt on Sam or the others.  
  
Clifton was standing in front of the jeep, peering down at the useless engine. He looked up when Randy pulled up a short distance behind him, not recognizing him until he got out of the car. By then it was too late; Randy held the Beretta firmly in his hand, pointed directly at the man's head, stepping close. Clifton stared for a moment, then laughed.  
  
"I should have known you'd be along, Randy. As soon as the damn jeep started dying, I should have known." He moved around to the side of the jeep, close to the box in the back. Randy saw the long, homemade fuse hanging over the top.  
  
"Don't even think about it, Clifton. I know what you've got there and I know how it works. So just step away. Far away."  
  
Clifton stopped, but didn't move away. He grinned at Randy, carefully pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.  
  
"And what if I don't? You shoot me? I don't even have to light the fuse, y'know. Just pull the thing over as I fall and let it drop. You know how volatile it is. You've seen what even this size can do. You're already way too close, amigo. I go, you go. Boom." His voice was soft as he raised his arms in a circling motion. Calmly lit the cigarette.  
  
"You got a death wish, 'amigo' ?" Randy held his ground, eyes never leaving Clifton's, but watching his hands. "Somehow I don't think so."  
  
"You think I want people believing I couldn't deal with you? That I let you get the best of me, not once, but twice? I might as well be dead. I'd spend the rest of my life watching my back; every two bit hustler wanting to make a name for himself would be after my ass. It would be a terrible inconvenience." Clifton took a deep drag from the cigarette, staring hard at Randy. "I like my lifestyle, just as it is. And if I die, and take you with me, my legend lives on, restored."  
  
"You're crazier than I thought you were, Clifton."  
  
"You're the one still standing there, Randy. Waiting to be blown to little pieces, right along with me. What's your excuse?"  
  
"I don't think you'll do it. I think you'd rather take your chances with me than with your Maker. And I think you're betting I'll back down rather than die with you."  
  
"First, I don't believe in a Maker. Second, I don't bet on how anyone will act. I only anticipate and prepare. What you decide to do is irrelevant. It's what I decide to do that matters." He took another drag from the cigarette. Held it up, pointing into the air. Grinned at Randy one more time.  
  
"And I just decided."  
  
*****  
  
How long they sat silently in the room, he wasn't sure. Time didn't mean anything to him any more. His guard didn't move much, shifting now and then, glancing over at him occasionally. His mind was elsewhere. Plans. Contingencies.  
  
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. That same muffled voice. Baracus stood and hurried over to open the door. Murdock came in, pale.  
  
"They found it. Out on the road, at the edge of the ranch. Looks like two vehicles, maybe a third. Hard to tell. Some kind of bomb. Nothing much left, just a big hole in the road."  
  
"Clifton?"  
  
"Not enough left to tell who it might have been, but most likely. As to who was in the other car..."  
  
Murdock looked over at him. He stared back, impassive. So, two down. That left five. Six, if he counted their host. And he hadn't had to lift a finger. Sweet.  
  
"Damn. Damn!" Baracus was shaking his head, anger and regret mixing in his scowl.  
  
"We don't know it was Randy. Not for sure. It might have just been some poor sucker who got too close when it went off. Daryl and Kurt said it was hard to tell there'd even been a couple vehicles there. Everything was just blown into nothing. Literally."  
  
The two men stood silently for a moment. A blast like that...they knew the realities.  
  
"So what's Hannibal want to do now?"  
  
"Lay low for a day or so, then head up to LA. He and Maggie got something worked out with Father Magill." Murdock again glanced over at the bed. "He's just not sure about Daryl and Kurt. He thinks Mick has something in mind. Doesn't know what, but it can't be good."  
  
"We ain't gonna leave those two here. Daryl ain't gonna work for no gun runner, family or not. And you know Kurt wouldn't last..."  
  
"I know, BA, I know. We just gotta hang in here until Hannibal works it all out. We won't leave anyone behind. You know that."  
  
The two men talked quietly for a little longer. He watched them, growing bored. Father Magill, huh? Another blast from the past. Supposed past. They really thought a priest could change anything? That a white collar would make him believe one set of lies over another? That he would believe anything anyone told him about his past?  
  
Fat chance.


	61. Chapter 61

Hannibal walked the perimeter of the courtyard, nodding automatically to the men on guard. He noticed that, although still alert, they had relaxed somewhat after the explosion that morning. They all felt the immediate threat was gone, although they knew replacements could, and probably would, be on the way soon. Hannibal felt that relief, too, but it was overridden with other, not so pleasant feelings.  
  
It had been a very long time since Hannibal had lost a man. It didn't set well. He was angry. Angry at Randy, for taking off on his own. Angry at Clifton, for making the bomb. Angry at Stockwell, for starting this whole thing. Angry at himself, for everything.  
  
He could've brought Randy around; he knew it. He was already starting to mellow out, working with Hannibal, working with the team. Starting to show that he was more than just a stone-cold killer. Or maybe it was just that Hannibal had started seeing him for more than that. Either way, the potential was there. It was! Once they got Face back, they could have done so much...Randy could have seen how it could work, how they could get things done without killing anyone. Maybe he could even have learned how to live without the anger. Learned to enjoy life, learned to trust people, learned to...Damn.  
  
How the hell was he going to tell Face?  
  
*****  
  
Murdock and BA were sitting on the patio, a checkerboard between them, neither paying any attention to it. Murdock held a red piece in his hand, slowing turning it between his fingers. BA just sat, staring off toward the hills. Frankie was sitting with Face, now that the danger was considered over.  
  
"I don't see Randy gettin hisself blowed up like that. Ain't right."  
  
"I know. But look who he was up against."  
  
"Randy coulda taken Clifton. Easy. Two of a kind."  
  
"Exactly. It's like Hannibal going up against Face. Something like that, it's just a matter of luck. And Randy's luck ran out." Murdock gripped the checker tightly between his fingers. "Hannibal really feels bad about it. I think he really liked Randy. Despite himself." Murdock allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "Like Face, remember?"  
  
BA just grunted. Murdock sighed.  
  
"Think he knows what happened?"  
  
"If he heard us, he understood. He ain't so out of it as Maggie thinks." BA never looked at Murdock, just talked to the hills.  
  
Murdock frowned. "So, you don't think he heard us talking then?"  
  
"I think he heard just fine."  
  
Murdock frowned deeper. "But, he didn't say anything. Didn't even look any different. I mean, if he knew Randy was...well...I mean, he'd react, wouldn't he? He'd be...hurt, or angry, or...something." He looked at BA, almost pleading with him to agree. "He wouldn't just sit there, right? I mean, Randy was..."  
  
"Randy weren't nothin to him. No more'n we are."  
  
"BA, come on. He left us for Randy. Sure, maybe he was weird about him back there at the cabin, I mean, he was weird about everything then, but that's all over with now. Right? Right, BA?"  
  
Two black angry eyes finally looked straight at Murdock. "Ain't nothin over, fool. Only thing's changed is now he don't talk. He's still thinkin, still plannin. Still hatin. Don't you think any different, just 'cause he ain't sayin nothin."  
  
"BA..."  
  
"Shut up, Murdock. I know what I know. And he ain't right yet. If anythin, he's more dangerous now than he was before. You remember that."  
  
Murdock had a sudden thought, not pleasant. "Frankie?"  
  
"I already tol Frankie not to go near him. Give him orders to call someone if Face so much as twitched. Frankie's still spooked, from the cabin. He won't go close enough to let Face do anythin."  
  
Murdock sighed. "You're sure about this, BA? Have you told Hannibal what you think?"  
  
"I'm sure. And I'm gonna tell Hannibal soon as he gets back from his rounds. He's gotta know before we try to take Face back to LA. Before somebody gets hurt."  
  
Murdock stared at the red disk in his hand. Watched it drop into the dirt.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl kicked at a bit of rubble. He, Kurt, and a couple of Mick's men were still sifting through the bomb site. The local authorities had already come and gone. Mick had talked with the head honcho, given him a cock and bull story about a freak accident with ranch supplies. Daryl had a feeling the guy didn't believe him, but wasn't about to argue about it, especially when Mick said he would pay for the road repair. The sheriff had heard about the search for Clifton, the rumors of a gang war; he was practical, if nothing else.  
  
They were gathering up what little was left of the vehicles now. Trying to figure out what kind of bomb it had been. And looking for...remains. They had found little pieces of metal, here and there, which seemed to have blood spatter on them. Daryl would check them out more closely when they returned to the ranch. But otherwise, there was nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
As if Randy had never existed.  
  
Daryl looked over at Kurt, who was kneeling down at the far edge of the crater, looking closely at the ground. They had barely spoken two words to each other since yesterday's disagreement with Mick, and after their initial search of the bomb site, and the conclusions they had been forced to come to, Kurt hadn't seemed willing to talk about anything to anyone. And Daryl found that he missed that trust, that connection.  
  
He listlessly tossed a piece of tire rim to the ground. Everything was going to hell. He'd thought coming to Mick's would be a safe haven for all of them. Instead... He was so sick of it. Stockwell. It all began and ended with Stockwell. A good man was dead now, because of him. Daryl didn't care what Randy may have done in the past; it didn't matter. Randy hadn't done those things because he enjoyed it, like Clifton. It hadn't been a game to him; it had been his job, his duty.  
  
Daryl had already decided he was not going back to Stockwell. Never again. He had been considering Mick's offer. Seriously. Oh, he knew it was on the wrong side of the law; but, after working for Stockwell, was it really that different? Supplying guns to terrorists or patriots, it was just a matter of viewpoint. Like Mick said. Daryl had tried to tell Kurt that, tried to get him to come along with him into the organization. But Kurt would have none of it. And Daryl was waffling. He didn't want to lose Kurt's friendship. Didn't want to lose his partner. But Mick was family. How could he turn his back on that?  
  
He watched as Kurt slowly stood and stared out into the hills. Randy's death had hit him very hard. Even more than Daryl, Kurt had respected Randy's intellect, his presence, his integrity. It had been part of the reason he had so readily agreed to help the Colonel. Now Randy was gone, and Daryl's empathy with the loss Kurt felt kept him from saying yes to Mick. So far.  
  
But Mick was family, damn it. Had always backed up Daryl, helped him when he needed it, never expected anything other than loyalty in return.  
  
Daryl thought back to something Randy had said, when Daryl told him of Mick's offer. And even though Daryl knew Randy didn't like or trust Mick, he had taken what he said seriously.  
  
"Family's just an accident of birth. Doesn't mean a damn thing. A good friend, now that's something worth keeping. Worth holding on to. No matter what. Don't let your family come between you and a friend. Don't let anything come between you. Ever."  
  
He might not agree with it totally, but he had listened. Seeing that Kurt was still staring off into the hills, Daryl started walking over to him. Randy may be gone, but Kurt wasn't going to lose everyone. Not yet, anyway.  
  
*****  
  
He watched Santana carefully. The kid was scared of him. He almost laughed aloud at that. Because Santana had every right to be afraid. He could snap his neck with one move. Maybe it would come to that, maybe it wouldn't. All depended on the necessities of the moment. For now, Santana was just a cog in the wheels of his fledgling plan. Him, and the woman. The two weak links in the Colonel's group. The two vulnerabilities he'd be able to work with. Santana, because he was a coward, inexperienced, gullible. The woman because she was too sympathetic, too engulfed in what she thought he was.  
  
That confused him. If 'Face' was just a figment of Stockwell's imagination, then why would the woman act as if she had really known him? Was she that good an actress? Maybe she wasn't as weak a link as he had thought. Maybe she was more dangerous to him than he realized.  
  
Something to keep in mind. The female of the species...  
  
He brought his mind back to the present in a snap. Santana was standing, looking at him. What had he done? Had he said something, without thinking? Made some movement that caught the kid's attention? Santana stepped a little closer to the bed. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the trembling from starting, his heart from accelerating. Santana stepped back again, frowning. Looked toward the door, licking his lips. Looked back again, finally sat down, still watching.  
  
The trembling quieted, as did his heart. He hated that. Hated it! The one thing he could not control, as hard as he tried. The one thing that could jeopardize everything.  
  
He was afraid of these people...  
  
*****  
  
"I'm quite certain it will be in the next few days. The one is nearly ready to move; their doctor is being a little too cautious, but even so seems anxious to leave here...It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. As long as it happens away from the ranch, and quietly...No, he stays here, with me...I'll take care of him, if need be, but Daryl will not be leaving with the rest...No, I already told you, he's dead. Both of them. And that was...absolutely not. I had nothing to do with it. Your man...he was under your employ, if not your control. I must say, I'm surprised at that. You must be losing your touch..."  
  
Mick allowed himself a chuckle at the other man's reaction. Old enemies were almost as good as old friends; you could always rely on them to react predictably. Stockwell was no exception. Mick could still play him like a fine-tuned violin.  
  
A few more minutes of strategizing, antagonizing, and Mick had finalized their plans. Stockwell would not know where the ranch was; he would only know where to pick up Smith and his men long after they had left Mick's. The General's people would be waiting, Mick's men would be following. They would box in the Team and that would be the end of it. By the time Daryl knew what had happened, it would be too late. He would have no one to go to except Mick. Mick would have his nephew, and a powerful, if reluctant, new ally to boot.  
  
Now he only had to wait for the Colonel to make his move.


	62. Chapter 62

He knew they were waiting for him. Waiting until he could stand the trip to meet this priest of theirs. They thought he needed a few days yet, although he could tell staying here was making them all tense. He wasn't talking; didn't mean he was blind.  
  
Two days after he'd come up from the darkness, the day after the explosion, the Colonel had come in, told him about Randy. Watched him, looking for some reaction. Whatever he was looking for, he was disappointed. Disappointed, and something else. The Colonel had sighed, heavily, and left, and he knew Smith and Baracus had already talked.  
  
Later that afternoon, the doctor and the Colonel had stood beside the bed, telling him he needed to get up, start walking around. He knew they were right; he had to start building up his strength, literally get back on his feet. But he didn't want them near him. Gently they had each taken an arm and started helping him to sit up. He'd panicked. He'd fought.  
  
He'd fallen heavily back against the pillows, an involuntary grunt surfacing at the sharp stab of pain in his shoulder. The woman held a hand over her eye, the Colonel clutched his side. Over the racing of his heart, he'd felt the gloat of success. Not bad for one arm. They wouldn't try to grab him again. He'd get up by himself, thank you very much.  
  
Glaring at him, the Colonel had taken the doctor's arm and led her out of the bedroom. He was left in peace for a long time. He stayed still for a while, letting his body relax again. He was just starting to think of how to get out of bed on his own when the bedroom door had opened once again. Reinforcements from the Colonel? He tensed, readying for another round.  
  
Mick had stepped in, quietly, and shut the door behind him. Stood there, watching. A small smile on his lips.  
  
"Well, my friend, you're not as helpless as they make you out to be, are you? I think, perhaps, you and I can come to an understanding..."  
  
He looked sharply at Mick. Thought for a moment. An understanding?  
  
Yes, perhaps they could.  
  
*****  
  
For the next three days, he worked with Mick's people. The woman would come in, check him over, then leave. None of Smith's other people came near him. Which was fine with him. Time enough to deal with them later. Right now, he had one goal.  
  
He walked around the room, a man on each side, until he couldn't walk any more. Until he had to be lifted back onto the bed. His muscles ached; hell, they burned. There wasn't a part of his body, soft from disuse, that didn't scream at him to stop. He gave himself exactly thirty minutes to recuperate and then he was up again. He used the pain; he drew its energy into himself and took yet another step.  
  
On the fourth day, he opened the door of his bedroom and walked out unaided. Sure, his progress was slow as he followed Mick down the hall. But he leaned on no one.  
  
Mick opened the door to the library for him and stepped aside. He moved through the door, looking around, getting his bearings. Took in the looks from each of the people inside, registering their reactions.  
  
Shock, surprise, relief...resentment.  
  
He'd expected that. He'd succeeded without them. Proved he didn't need them. But he was careful to keep his features neutral. Didn't want them to think he was too aware of things yet. Not yet.  
  
He still had things to do.  
  
*****  
  
He knew his time was short. Mick had told him of his own suspicions and he agreed with the man's assessment. Now that he was more or less mobile, there would be little reason for Smith to stay here. He had much to learn before his own plans could be finalized.  
  
He wandered the house and grounds, seemingly aimlessly. But he had a purpose. Make himself invisible. Make them take him for granted. Get them to talk when he was present, without suspicion. His silence helped immensely. They got used to him showing up suddenly, saying nothing, sometimes sitting down, sometimes wandering off almost immediately. Exactly like someone would act who had no idea what was going on around him. And since they wanted him to feel 'comfortable' with them, they couldn't very well walk out when he came in.  
  
Eventually he started hearing what he needed to hear. Seeing what he needed to see. Some of it would get back to Mick; that was their agreement. But some of it he would keep to himself. Most of it. Mick would learn only enough to keep him satisfied.  
  
It had been a strange 'conversation'. Mick talked, suggested things. He had either nodded, or remained still. Eventually they had come to an understanding. Mick's people would help him get back on his feet, and he would provide Mick with information about Smith's plans for escape. Mick wanted one thing - to keep Daryl with him. It was important to Mick.  
  
That was Mick's first mistake. Letting him know how important Daryl was. Letting him know where his weakness was.  
  
That was another reason he kept quiet. People didn't like silence. They would talk to fill in the void. Knowing that was the secret to being a great salesman. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut. The mark would eventually talk themselves into the sale. Worked damn near every time.  
  
And it worked now. Perfectly. Two days after leaving his room, he knew exactly what he needed to know.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt and Daryl were sitting on the patio when he approached. These two were the most at ease with him, although there was still a certain reserve.  
  
"Hey, Sam. You're really getting around great now." Kurt smiled at him, totally at ease calling him by that name. Not that it mattered to him one way or the other.  
  
"Yeah, Sam. Have a seat." Daryl pulled a chair over, closer to them, but giving him his space. After a moment's hesitation, he sat. He made no response to further comments, just stared off into the distance. Soon, Kurt and Daryl had resumed their own conversation.  
  
"I still think we should consider it, Kurt. Mick says we don't have to do anything illegal. We'd only be, like, security consultants."  
  
"Helping him outwit the law, Daryl. Helping him spread terrorism. No thanks."  
  
"And what we did for Stockwell was always above board, right? Good God, Kurt, the whole reason for Stockwell's existence is to do the things the law won't allow."  
  
"But for the right ends, Daryl. Not for money. And we stopped people from getting killed. We didn't provide the means for mass murder."  
  
"That all depends on whose side you were on, right? Stockwell toppled governments, and some of those replacements weren't exactly democratic. A lot of people died because of him."  
  
"A lot of people would have died any way. At least we put someone in those places who were at least willing to consider democracy."  
  
Daryl stood, shaking his head angrily. "What do you think Mick is doing? The people he supplies are the ones with very good reasons to want to overthrow their governments!"  
  
Kurt practically slammed his glass on the table. "Are you listening to yourself, Daryl? Damn it!" Kurt visibly got himself under control. "Okay, let's just think a minute, okay? What do you think Sam over there would say about us joining your uncle?"  
  
Daryl looked over at him, but he kept staring off into space. What would he say? He'd say shoot the bastard and get rid of one more piece of vermin. In fact, that wasn't such a bad idea.  
  
"And what about Randy? Randy's been there, Daryl. What do you think he'd say?"  
  
"Randy's dead."  
  
"He...okay, but what would he say about this whole thing, Daryl? Really? If he were standing right here in front of you, having done all those things he's done, seen all the things he's seen, what would he say?"  
  
Daryl said nothing. He glared at Kurt for a moment, then headed back into the house without a word. Kurt sighed, gulping down the last of his drink.  
  
"We're quite the pair, huh, Sam?"  
  
He just sat there, looking at Kurt. Wondering what the man was holding back.  
  
*****  
  
Later that afternoon, he'd gone into the library. Hannibal and Maggie were already there, and nodded to him, wary. He made his way to an overstuffed chair by the window, out of their way, but close enough to hear. One by one, the rest of the team, along with Kurt and a still sullen Daryl, joined them. Each of them noted his presence, and moved unconsciously to the other side of the room. BA stationed himself by the door, leaving it open enough to see anyone coming down the hall.  
  
Hannibal began speaking, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry out of the room. "Okay, Father Magill will be waiting for us to call him when we get to LA. I told him we should be there in a week, tops."  
  
"We flyin, Hannibal?" BA scowled, but there was no outright refusal.  
  
"No, BA, not this time. We can't afford to take a chance at any of the airports around here." Hannibal scowled himself now. "I saw the newspaper a couple days ago. Seems the security chief at the Monterrey - Escobedo International Airport was found murdered."  
  
"He had something to do with us, Johnny?"  
  
"I think he did. Clifton would have talked to him about our arrival; he would have had the information on Mick's whereabouts. And Mick doesn't like leaks." Hannibal glanced apologetically at Daryl.  
  
"Now, wait a minute..." Daryl started to protest, but Hannibal silenced him with a look.  
  
"I'm not saying he had anything to do with the actual murder, Daryl. But he would have made his displeasure known. What I'm really saying is that any place where Mick's contacts are involved is going to be doubly risky for us. And all things considered, we have to play it as safe as possible."  
  
He knew Smith was looking at him when he said this. He had to accept the truth in the Colonel's assessment. Sure, he was getting around better and better, but he'd be of little use in a sustained firefight, or if they had to make a run for it. His own plans meant they had nothing to worry about from Mick himself, but, as Smith stated, the Mexican authorities were another matter.  
  
"So what's the plan, Hannibal?" Murdock had been wandering the room, coming uncomfortably close to him several times. Scrutinizing him. He kept his face carefully neutral, but he could feel the anxiety grow with each pass the pilot made.  
  
"BA's going to sneak into town, find us a van or a truck, make sure it's serviceable. Daryl, you, Kurt and Frankie will scout around, find a place we can hide it until we need it. Someplace close enough to reach as easily as possible. The security is getting more and more lax around here; if we get a chance to make a break, we'll take it. Otherwise, we move out in three days, after the rest of the house has gone to bed. What few guards will be around we should be able to handle with no problem."  
  
"I don't like sneaking around behind Mick's back, Colonel."  
  
"I know, Daryl, and I'm sorry to ask you to do this. But your uncle may have plans of his own for us, and I don't intend to wait to find out what they may be. No offense, but he's a business man, Daryl. And I'm quite sure Stockwell would offer him quite an incentive for our return."  
  
"He wouldn't..."  
  
"Daryl. Think about it." Kurt kept his voice reasonable. "If we weren't here, would there be any question in your mind about staying with Mick? Any at all?"  
  
Daryl stared at him, realization finally hitting home. "No. Where else could I go?" His voice was quiet, regretful.  
  
"Whether you stay or go is up to you, Daryl." Hannibal's voice was also reasonable, quiet. "But we have to have your help to get out. Can we count on you for that much?"  
  
"You know you can, Colonel."  
  
Hannibal nodded, satisfied. "Okay, then. That's settled. Any other questions?"  
  
"Yeah, Hannibal. What about him?" BA nodded toward the chair.  
  
Hannibal's voice was quiet. "One way or the other, BA. I'm not going to stand around arguing the point."  
  
BA looked back at Hannibal, nodding his head. It went without saying who would put an end to any difficulties.  
  
He waited until everyone had filed out and the room settled into quiet. They wouldn't have to worry about any arguments. He fully intended to go with them, to get away from the ranch.  
  
Whether he would be with them all the way to LA was another question...


	63. Chapter 63

Daryl, Kurt and Frankie had each made forays into the countryside over the course of the day. Daryl took a jeep; Kurt and Frankie had so far not been allowed that luxury, on the pretense that no one wanted them to get lost in the hills. Frankie had suggested they all go in the jeep, but Kurt vetoed that. Groups of men garnered attention, the last thing they needed right now. Frankie wasn't happy but he could see the logic in it. And naturally, he wouldn't dream of arguing with either man. After dealing with Face, and then Randy, he wanted to keep as low key as possible with all of them.  
  
Daryl took off in a northerly direction, exactly the opposite of where he hoped to find a hiding place. He drove for nearly a half hour, making lazy circles, gradually working his way to the area he was looking for. He'd noticed the woods earlier, although as he got closer he realized it was more a stand of straggly trees than a woods. He sighed heavily. His uncle had chosen this ranch well. No hiding places meant no sneak attacks. He would have to drive further out, knowing that the further he went, the harder it would for the team to reach BA's truck safely. Cursing silently, he turned the jeep away from the ranch.  
  
Kurt made sure to run into Mick before he stalked his way toward the east. What better reason to take a walk than to work off his frustrations with Mick and Daryl? A well-aimed and unfeigned glare made it clear that Kurt didn't want to be around certain people. He could see Mick grinning as he left the courtyard. Let him. In a few days, he'd be grinning out of the other side of his face. His 'guests' would be long gone, and if Kurt had anything to say about it, so would Mick's nephew. He grimaced. All he had to do was figure out how.  
  
The ground this way was rough and rock-strewn. And very little in the way of decent cover. He wandered almost straight from the house for a bit, then gradually headed further south toward the road. Nothing. A few groups of scraggly trees, an outcropping of rock here and there. No place to hide a truck or van that was anywhere near the house.  
  
It looked like it would be a long walk for the team when they left.  
  
No one paid any attention to Frankie as he set off on his trek. He didn't let it bother him. He knew everyone, possibly even including Johnny, thought he was basically a semi-useless appendage to the team. But he also knew that, in his own element, he was damn good. One day he'd have a chance to prove it; in the meantime, he enjoyed the anonymity. In this case, it allowed him much greater freedom to find the perfect spot. And he wouldn't stop until he found it.  
  
Hours later, having tramped his way around what he figured must be every acre of land Mick owned, he hit pay dirt. Literally. He was near the top of a hill, to the west. He wasn't even sure he was still on Mick's property, although he wasn't that far from the house. Kurt and Daryl had figured the best place would be to the east, so BA wouldn't have to drive the truck past the house, but with the two of them covering that side, he figured what the heck? He had just dropped to the ground to rest, when he heard it.  
  
Just behind him, somewhere, he could hear running water. He looked around. No stream, no spring, just dirt. He turned a little further and saw it. A shadow in amongst a bunch of rocks and small trees. Glancing back toward the house below, he stood and hurried over, following the sound of the water. Moving around the rocks, he realized the shadow was not that at all, but a large opening in the rocks. Getting closer, he felt a cold breeze funneling out of the opening. The very large opening. A cave.  
  
Five minutes of exploration told him it was large enough, barely, to hold a large truck. He hurried back to the house, looking for BA.  
  
*****  
  
BA watched carefully as the guard turned and meandered around the corner. He followed carefully, hand automatically going for his gold before he remembered he'd left it in his room. Hannibal had insisted on it, just another indication of the growing strain this whole mess was putting on the man. BA shook his head as he approached the corner where the guard had disappeared. The sooner they were all out of here, the better he'd like it.  
  
He peered around the corner, trying to see through the shadows. No motion that he could see. He could make it to a stand of trees without problem, but after that he had a good thirty yards of completely open area to go through before reaching shelter among a group of rocks. It wasn't exactly well-lit, but enough so anyone looking that way would see his movement. Bad enough he had to go that way once; he'd also have to get back to the house after finding transportation.  
  
He glanced at his watch, the luminous dials telling him he had to get moving. It would take him a good two hours to walk into town, then the time needed to find a decent vehicle. At least he'd be able to drive it back, but only as far as the cave Frankie had found. Then he'd have to walk again.  
  
Shaking his head one more time, he hurried to the trees. He waited there for the guard to make the next round. As soon as the man's back was turned, BA raced across the open area, hoping the guard's own footsteps would mask his. It seemed to take years to before he dropped down among the rocks, waiting for the alarm to sound. He glanced cautiously up; the guard had disappeared. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, counting to ten to catch his breath before beginning the next leg of his journey.  
  
Within a few minutes, he was trotting beside the drive toward the main road. He didn't look back again.  
  
*****  
  
He watched as Baracus slipped out of the house. Followed behind, silently, to be sure he got away safely. He couldn't follow him into town; he didn't have the stamina for that. But he would make sure no alarm was sounded while he was on the grounds. It was too important that the man complete his mission.  
  
When Baracus made the break for the rocks, he was watching from the shadows of the trees. Sure footed and stealthy the man might be, he wasn't totally silent, and he'd started out just a moment too early. While the sergeant was still running, the guard stopped, started turning.  
  
That wasn't allowed.  
  
Seconds later, he was dragging the guard behind the shrubbery beside the house, trying to control his ragged breathing. He wasn't ready for this. Not yet. He desperately hoped no other obstacles came along. Cautiously he looked over at Baracus' position. There. Watched him move out, heading away from the house, toward the main road. He watched until he could see him no more.  
  
Now he just had to hide the body.  
  
*****  
  
Although Hannibal had 'retired' for the night, he hadn't gone to sleep. Instead, he paced. He knew that wasn't a good sign. Even in Nam, he hadn't been the kind to worry. Not like this, anyway. But this wasn't like anything they'd gone through before. He hadn't felt the Jazz for a long, long time. He missed it. Missed the joy of taking on the bad guys and beating the shit out of them. Missed planning the attack, talking it over with the guys. With Face.  
  
He shook his head. BA would find a truck, or a van. Something that would get them the hell out of here. And then they'd take Face to Father Magill. Hannibal held onto Maggie's belief that the priest could help where no one else could. Whether it was because of some hope for divine interference or just because they had run out of options, he didn't know. Mainly he wanted to believe because he hadn't an idea in hell what they would do with Face if it didn't work.  
  
They couldn't take him back to Stockwell the way he was. They'd lose him again, just like that. He'd either end up in one of Stockwell's high security 'hospitals' or the General would make him into another Randy. Worse, another Clifton. No, no way they could let Stockwell get his hands on Face like he was now.  
  
Going back on the run wouldn't be much better. If BA was right, and Hannibal thought he was, they would have to watch their backs constantly. Always on guard, either against Stockwell, the military, or Face. That would never work. Never.  
  
If Father Magill couldn't get through to him, what would they do then? Just let him go, as he wanted? Let him make up a new life, without a history, without a past, without them? Knowing there was a damn good chance he would follow a path that would destroy his future as surely as he'd tried to destroy his past? Or put him away themselves, in the same kind of 'secure facility' that Stockwell would and hope his memory would come back on its own?  
  
No. No, Hannibal would never do that.  
  
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. No, he had to put his faith in Father Magill. It was his only option.  
  
*****  
  
He stepped carefully now. Everyone was supposed to be in bed, asleep, but he knew better than to accept that as a certainty. Most of the people in the house wouldn't find it strange that he was wandering around in the middle of the night; they were used to him showing up in odd places at odd times. But he didn't want to run into Mick. Not now.  
  
He quietly turned the doorknob. Locked, as expected. Glancing around quickly. Halls empty. Listened. Quiet. A moment later, he'd picked the lock, slid through the doorway, relocked it.  
  
He stood for a few minutes, not moving, letting his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. He made out Mick's desk on the far side of the room, and the huge bookcase off to the side. Moving slowly, he headed for the bookcase. Started feeling around the edges, looking for the spring. He knew it was there, somewhere. The bookcase was way too thick. Ah. There it was. He smiled.  
  
The bookcase slid silently open, like a huge door. Just the front of it, where the books sat unread on the shelves. Behind that was the prize he was looking for. A soft light filtered down from the top. He smiled again. Looked slowly at the collection in front of him. There. Just what he needed.  
  
Almost reverently, he released the catch on the Beretta hanging on the wall.


	64. Chapter 64

BA was beginning to get a feel for what Face had gone through since hooking up with Hannibal. "Go get a van, BA." Sure, like something big enough to hold eight people would just be sitting on the street, waiting for him in perfect running order. And nobody would notice it was missing in the morning.  
  
Sure.  
  
He wandered through the streets, trying to find the car lots he'd seen in the telephone book that afternoon. He usually was very good at directions, but the streets seemed to begin and end without warning, starting up again a couple blocks away. It didn't take long and he was totally lost. He glanced at his watch again. Time was getting short. If he didn't find something soon, he'd have to give up and try again the next night. And he knew Hannibal wouldn't be happy about the delay. The Colonel didn't trust Mick and wanted to be ready to move at a moment's notice.  
  
He found himself in yet another dead end street, and was just starting back when someone hissed at him. He looked quickly toward the sound, saw a man standing at the entrance to an alley. The man motioned at him with a nod of his head. BA was about to wave him off, when he saw it.  
  
Dimly lit by the streetlight, an old cargo van sat in the alley, a few yards behind the man. It looked to be in rough shape, but that didn't mean it didn't run. He didn't like the man's general attitude, but he needed to find out about that van. Tensing slightly, he moved toward him.  
  
"¡Eh!, hombre. ¿Usted quiere un poco de acción, ¡eh!?" The man grinned, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "¿Una pequeña apuesta, quizás, sobre algunos enfrentamientos amartilla?"  
  
"Speak English?" BA stopped, glaring at the man. He had an idea what the guy wanted, and it wasn't anything BA was interested in.  
  
"Si, amigo. A little. You like cock fights, señor? A little bet, huh?" The man grinned, and BA saw he was missing more than a few teeth.  
  
"No, I ain't interested in no cock fights!" BA shook his head, disgusted. "I wanna know 'bout that van. You know who owns it?"  
  
The man glanced back at the van, looked at BA with greed in his eyes. "Si, I know that man, señor. He won't sell, maybe. But, I could talk to him, maybe..."  
  
"Don't know that I wanna buy, either, fool. Don't even know if it runs yet. Forget it..." BA turned and started walking away.  
  
The man behind him, startled, followed quickly. "Wait, señor, wait. That van runs good, real good. Maybe the owner, he want to sell after all. You let me help, we work something out, eh?"  
  
BA grinned to himself. Yeah, they'd work somethin out...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had given up any pretense of sleeping. He was now worrying - unnecessarily, he knew - about BA. Would he be able to find something suitable? Would he have to steal it? Would that bring more unwanted attention to the ranch, to Mick, to them? Would he get back to the house without being seen?  
  
Damn.  
  
This was not the way he operated. He was never concerned about his men succeeding at the tasks he set for them. He knew they would do the job. Always. Knew they could handle anything that cropped up. Especially now. They all wanted the same thing. They all wanted to get the hell off this ranch and back to LA. Back to familiar territory.  
  
Except maybe one.  
  
Damn.  
  
He left his room, deciding it wouldn't do any harm if anyone did see him out and about at this late hour. He would go out on the patio, have a slow cigar and try to relax. No one would find anything suspicious about that. Not after everything that had happened.  
  
He met a couple of Mick's people on the way. Guns up until they realized who it was. On their guard, even now. Strictly against outsiders? He wondered. An apologetic nod from them and he was allowed on his way. He breathed a little easier. Good. Still allowing him to move around, unfettered. Would make it easier to leave the house, when the time came.  
  
It would have to come soon, too. Mick, while still cordial, was getting a little more distant. And Hannibal did not like the fact that it was Mick's people who were working with Face. Jealousy, again. He freely admitted it now. He learned from the past. But there was more to it than that. Mick didn't help anyone unless there was something in it for him. Hannibal thought about that for a while. Maybe they shouldn't have been so free in talking about their escape; not with Face in the room. No. One thing Face would not do is side with Mick against the team. Not even Sam would do that.  
  
He lit a second cigar, stared up at the stars. Almost didn't hear it. Turned, saw him standing in the doorway. How long he'd been there, Hannibal had no idea.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he tried for a natural smile. Non-threatening.  
  
"Hello, kid. Want to join me?"  
  
*****  
  
He moved quietly through the house, checking. Met up with a couple of Mick's men along the way. They would stare at him, but say, do, nothing. He would return their stare and move on. He wanted them to see him. Wanted them to wonder about him. Wanted them spooked. So far it was working. He smiled to himself.  
  
As he moved along the halls, he was quietly checking each of the doors as he came to them. No one could open a door as quietly as he could, locked or not. Whether that came from Face or from Sam, he neither knew nor cared. One or the other of them had learned that and so much more, and he appreciated their diligence in perfecting the art of stealth.  
  
He opened each door only a few inches. That was all he needed. He closed his eyes, listened, and smelled. Smell was an amazing sense. Too few people made full use of it. Each person had their own scent. Not body odor, per se. But the commingling of their own smell, with the cologne, aftershave, even the clothing they wore. If one closed off the other senses, sight, touch, hearing, one could hone in on that unique scent and know who was where.  
  
So far, he had identified each of the team members' rooms, and several of the upper echelon of Mick's group. He had yet to find Mick's. That was of utmost importance. He had to know where the man slept. Where he was most vulnerable.  
  
He owed Daryl that much. For California.  
  
He still hadn't found Mick's room when he saw the Colonel, heading out onto the patio. He hesitated. He could feel the near automatic reaction in his limbs. He had to curb that. He would have to be in close quarters with Smith, with all of them, when they made their escape. And he had to make them think he was harmless, regardless of Baracus.  
  
Swallowing hard, forcing control of his rebellious body, he moved toward the patio door. He stood there for some moments, gathering himself together. Finally, steeled for the next move, he deliberately scraped his bare foot on the stones of the patio.  
  
The Colonel turned, startled. A second's hesitation; a smile.  
  
"Hello, kid. Want to join me?"  
  
He hesitated, deliberately, before moving out to the patio. He came as close as he dared, as close as his self-control would let him, and sat, slowly, cautiously, into the waiting chair. And waited for the Colonel to make the next move.  
  
*****  
  
BA was losing his patience. He'd already waited for the guy to wake up the owner, who was none too happy about it. He gotten the keys, started the van and listened and watched as it sat in the alley and ran. It would need some adjustments, but nothing major. He was satisfied it would do the job. Then came the hard part. Negotiating a price from the weak side of the bargaining table. The more problems he pointed out with the van, the more impatient the owner became. He really didn't need to sell it, and wanted more than anything to go back to bed. The price kept going higher, instead of lower, and the original price had been too high for the team's purse. For the first time since the trial, BA was actually wishing he had Stockwell backing them up. At least financially.  
  
But maybe he had something better, at least in this neck of the woods. If he worded things just right, he would have a done deal within minutes. He motioned to Alley Guy and stepped to one side.  
  
"Listen, 'amigo', I wasn't s'posed to say anything but this van is not for me. You heard about the guy Mr. Mick was lookin for the other day?"  
  
At the mention of Mick, Alley Guy went pale. "Si, I had heard of it."  
  
"Well, Mr. Mick has some things to take care of, with that guy, and he needs a van for that. And he sent me, as kind of a test, y'know, to get him one. Now, if I can't do that, and within reason, Mr. Mick's not gonna be too happy. Not with me, and not with whoever I get the van from. We understand each other, here?"  
  
Alley Guy nodded his head, a worried frown appearing on his face. "Un momento, por favor, señor. Me dirigiré a él. Él entrará en la razón, prometo." He hurried back, completely ignoring the fact that BA had no idea what he'd said.  
  
Ten minutes later, BA was driving the van back toward the ranch. He'd paid the equivalent of $100 American dollars and didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.  
  
He began to understand that glint in the eye that Face used to get. It did feel good. Real good.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal watched his lieutenant carefully. He could tell he wasn't really comfortable, sitting out here, alone, with him. But he was keeping the discomfort carefully under control. BA was right in one respect; there was more going on inside that head than just fog.  
  
"I'd offer you a cigar, Face, but Maggie would have my head." He chuckled softly, waiting for the other man's reaction. He could hardly believe it when, after a moment's hesitation, he was rewarded with a very small smile.  
  
Encouraged, Hannibal decided if he wanted Face to trust him, he had to trust Face. At least, to a certain point.  
  
"We'll be leaving here soon, Face. Going back to LA. There's someone we would like you to...meet. Someone I think you'll like."  
  
The smile disappeared, but otherwise there was no reaction. Well, at least he hadn't taken off.  
  
"It'll be your choice, Face, naturally." Okay, a small lie. Hannibal wasn't averse to that. It answered the short term needs. "But I think it would be a good thing to meet him. If you decide you don't want any more to do with him, then that would be it. What do you think?" He waited, patiently, anxiously.  
  
Face looked at him. Looked right in his eyes. He stood, and Hannibal was afraid he would just walk off. Instead, he looked off into the distance, and slowly nodded his head. Without a word or gesture more, he walked deliberately back into the house.  
  
Hannibal sat back in his chair. Lit another cigar. Smiled.  
  
Maybe he really had been worrying for nothing.  
  
*****  
  
As soon as he was out of sight of the patio, he increased his pace to his room. He had accomplished a great deal tonight. Smith now thought he was coming around. Was willing to meet them halfway. Was starting to trust them more. And Smith was starting to trust him. Yes, indeed, he'd accomplished a great deal.  
  
He locked his door behind him. Hurried into the bathroom. Bent over the toilet and was violently sick.  
  
Accomplishments paid for at a great price.


	65. Chapter 65

"He smiled? I mean, it wasn't like, gas or something?"  
  
"Murdock..."  
  
"Okay, okay, it just...just seems kinda sudden, y'know, Colonel?"  
  
"I don't know, Murdock. It's only been, what, a few months? C'mon, guys! Not only did Johnny get a smile out of him, but he's agreed to see Father Magill. We should be happy about this. Right?" Frankie grinned widely at the group.  
  
Only Hannibal smiled back, a fact the Colonel took note of. He sighed. "Okay, Murdock, BA, what's the problem?"  
  
"Well, he didn't really agree to meet with Father Magill, Hannibal. He just agreed to meet some guy, thinking he can walk away from it if he wants to. And that's not exactly the case, is it?" Murdock played with the bill of his cap, frowning at Hannibal.  
  
"No, not exactly, Murdock. But a little white lie got us a little closer to the ultimate goal, right?"  
  
"Not exactly a little white lie, Hannibal."  
  
"Close enough. So, BA, what's your problem with this?"  
  
BA looked away. He wanted to believe that Face was coming around, but...  
  
"I don't think he just had a change o' heart, Hannibal. I think he understood from the other night that we was gettin outta here. And I think he decided then to come along with us."  
  
"And last night?"  
  
"He conned you. Pure and simple." BA was looking Hannibal fully in the eye now.  
  
Hannibal stared at BA. "BA, I can read Face's scams like a billboard. This wasn't..."  
  
"This wasn't Face, Colonel. When you gonna accept that? Yeah, he's in there, somewhere, but this ain't him, not yet. You keep hopin, Hannibal. That's okay, s'long as you know what's what, now."  
  
Hannibal looked at the other men. Murdock kept playing with his cap, not looking back at him. Frankie looked confused, frustrated. He looked over to the corner, where Kurt and Daryl had been listening, but not saying anything.  
  
"How about it, Kurt? Daryl? You agree with BA? You think he's capable of pulling off a scam, in the condition he's in?"  
  
The two men looked at each other before Kurt finally answered. "Colonel, I hate to say it, because I like Sam. But right now, I don't think we know what he's capable of. I wouldn't take anything he does at face value. So, yeah, BA's right. We have to watch him. But if he's willing to come with us, that's what we all want in the short run." Kurt looked at BA. "The Colonel may be right about him, too, BA. So we give him the benefit of the doubt, but keep our eyes open just the same. I also think the sooner we get out of here, the better."  
  
"How's the van, BA?" Hannibal grabbed that opening like a life preserver.  
  
"It'll work. I gotta make a few adjustments before it'll get to LA, but it'll work long enough to get us a good ways from here first."  
  
"Okay. We leave tonight, as soon as the house is quiet. We'll go separately, starting around one. Take it easy with Mick's men; we don't want to raise any alarms. We can always make another try tomorrow night. If we're not all there by three, we call it off, sneak back and wait." He looked around at them again. "Any questions?"  
  
"What about Face, Hannibal? How do we get him out there?"  
  
"I'll bring him. After all, he trusts me now. Or thinks he's hustled me. But he'll come with me, either way." They all noticed the hint of bitterness in Hannibal's voice.  
  
The men began dispersing, everyone with mixed feelings of relief and misgivings. Daryl hesitated, waited until the others had gone, leaving only Hannibal.  
  
"Uh, Colonel, I..."  
  
"Haven't decided yet, Daryl? I wondered about that." Hannibal looked at him, like a stern uncle. "You know what he's about, Daryl. You really want to be involved in that?"  
  
"He's family, Colonel."  
  
"Is that all that important, Daryl? Families can mess you up as much as they can back you up, you know."  
  
"So I've been told. Look, I just don't know what I'm going to do, yet. It's not like I've got a wide range of options."  
  
"You stay with Mick, you run out of options completely. And you know how it will end, eventually. No one's luck lasts forever. Especially not in Mick's world."  
  
"I know. But maybe that's a big reason to stay. I can help the luck last a little longer."  
  
Hannibal sighed. He liked Daryl, wanted him to make the right choice. But it had to be his choice. "Okay, Daryl. You think about it. I want a definite answer by suppertime. But think hard about it. Okay?"  
  
"Right, Colonel. Thanks." He headed out the door.  
  
No one noticed the figure standing outside the window.  
  
*****  
  
He had to move fast now. He'd expected them to leave soon, but not tonight. He was disappointed with Smith, but it wasn't unexpected. He should have known Baracus would cause problems. He would have to do something about that. But carefully.  
  
In the meantime, he had more immediate concerns. He had to know what route Smith intended to take. It wouldn't do to have Mick's people in the wrong place. Not at all. The question was, how to find out. He knew Smith wouldn't come out and tell him. Nor would Baracus or Murdock, not that he would go near either one now. Kurt and Daryl had their own problems. Maggie wouldn't know or care. She was just along for the ride.  
  
Which left Santana.  
  
He smiled.  
  
It took some doing to find Santana alone. The man was way too gregarious. Eventually, however, Frankie had wandered over to the corral, stood there watching the horses meandering about. He joined him. Stood several feet away, pretending to watch the animals. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Santana look over at him, curious, cautious. He knew Santana was still gun-shy from before. He also knew the man's ego. The chance of connecting with Smith's number one boy, when the others hadn't, could not be passed up. He waited patiently for the first tentative step. He didn't have to wait long.  
  
"Hey, Face..."  
  
He looked over at him. He found it curious that he wasn't nervous - well, as nervous - around Santana as the others. He didn't say anything, just looked. Waited.  
  
"Johnny says you're all set to go with us. That's great, man, really great."  
  
He waited a moment, then nodded.  
  
Santana grinned.  
  
Success.  
  
"Hey, I hope your shoulder's feeling better, Face. I mean, this could be kind of a rough trip, y'know."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. Keep talking.  
  
"Oh, I guess Johnny hasn't had a chance to talk to you about the details yet, huh?" Santana hesitated. Afraid of talking out of turn? He decided to add a little enticement...  
  
He turned, started walking away.  
  
"I mean, I don't suppose he'd mind if I told you, though..." Santana spoke hurriedly, not wanting to give up the glory just yet.  
  
He stopped, turned. Waited.  
  
It was just too easy.  
  
*****  
  
Mick was working at his desk, taking care of the latest shipping details. To anyone watching him at the ranch, it might have seemed he was a man of leisure. But he kept close tabs on every aspect of his operation. The ranch merely made it more pleasurable. And safer.  
  
He heard the voice of his guard outside his door, and looked up as it silently opened. The guard let the lieutenant in and Mick chuckled as he noticed the wide berth his man gave him. Intelligent and sophisticated as his close attendants were, superstitions carried through generations could not be completely buried. Mick had heard his men mention "el mal de ojo" - the evil eye. He really shouldn't laugh at them. What made his men nervous also made them make mistakes. It would be just as well when these men, in particular this man, were gone.  
  
He stood a few feet in front of the desk, staring at Mick. His contempt didn't elude Mick. He knew exactly what the lieutenant thought of him. He also knew he was being used. It didn't bother him. He was getting adequate compensation for being used. More than adequate, really.  
  
"You have something for me, my silent friend?"  
  
The lieutenant pulled out a paper, on which he'd drawn a crude map. Tossed it on the desk. Mick picked it up, looked at it carefully.  
  
"You're sure of this?" Mick frowned as the man nodded. It wasn't the route he would have chosen; but then, Colonel Smith was known for being unconventional.  
  
"When?"  
  
Three fingers held up.  
  
"Tonight then?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
He pushed a button under his desk; in moments, Leandro appeared. The two men conferred for a few minutes; Leandro left abruptly, glancing at the lieutenant as he moved to the door. Mick picked up his telephone, dialed the number.  
  
"General? I have news..."  
  
Mick paid no attention as the lieutenant quietly left the room, smiling.


	66. Chapter 66

Hannibal was watching Mick closely as the two men sat in the library. Mick had 'asked' him to come see him, and Hannibal was curious as to what the guy had in mind. He'd noticed some increased activity around the ranch and it added to his, well, nervousness. He was still waiting for the Jazz to kick in, wondering if it would.  
  
Mick finally put away the papers he'd been busy signing, smiling apologetically at Hannibal. He came around the desk and leaned casually against it.  
  
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Colonel. Some things I had to finish up. I'll get right to the point. I'm sure you've noticed that my men have been 'engaged' the last few hours."  
  
"I had."  
  
"It's nothing to concern yourself with, I assure you. Some trouble with a shipment. However, it does cause some concern for me. You see, I will have to send the greater share of them off on an errand tonight. And that means the men remaining will be, well, a little tense. I'm not expecting any trouble from Stockwell. My sources indicate things are quiet from that area, so far. However, my men are not so easily persuaded. So, I would greatly appreciate it if you and your men could stay in the house this evening and tonight. Just until my other men return. I hope you understand."  
  
"Of course, Mick. Not a problem. In fact, if you'd like a little help with guard duty..."  
  
"That won't be necessary, but thank you, anyway. I am a little concerned about your lieutenant. He does have a habit of, well, wandering..."  
  
"I'll keep an eye on him, Mick. Don't worry."  
  
The two men made polite conversation for a few more minutes before Hannibal took his leave. The whole conversation with Mick set the alarms ringing. On the one hand, it was a perfect time for their escape. On the other hand, it was also a perfect setup. There was one person who would know, and wouldn't be able to lie to him about it.  
  
Daryl.  
  
*****  
  
He watched the preparations throughout the afternoon. Mick was making no secret of his men preparing for some operation. Smart. It wasn't as if the team were Mick's only concern right now; the man had a business to run, after all. He wondered what cock and bull story Mick was feeding Smith right now. And whether or not Smith was buying it.  
  
He turned, started wandering back toward the house. He knew he was on a tight schedule now. Smith would start looking for him soon. Wanting to keep track of him, keep him out of the guards' way, make sure he got to the van. But he had things to do, and Smith couldn't suspect anything. He headed for his room, keeping an eye out for any of the team.  
  
Once there, he slipped off his shoes, climbed into bed, making sure he was completely under the covers. It wasn't unusual for him to take naps during the day, considering how much time he spent walking about at night. He waited. He knew Smith would look around the house first, but eventually would check out his room. He just hoped he wouldn't take too long.  
  
While he waited, he thought. He was taking an awful lot of chances now, for someone who shouldn't mean anything to him. But there was some niggling thought in the back of his mind, something that kept telling him he needed to do this. Daryl would be making a big mistake, a big mistake, if he chose to stay with his uncle. Frankly, he didn't know if Daryl would decide to or not; he wasn't willing to take that chance. The choice had to be made for him. After that, Daryl's life was his own. He would have to make his own mistakes.  
  
He heard a light knock at his door. Took a quick glance at his watch. Cutting it close. He closed his eyes, made his breathing deep and regular. He heard Smith come in; knew it was him from the cigar smell. Listened as he stepped near the bed.  
  
"Face..." Quiet, not wanting to wake him if he were really asleep. How considerate.  
  
A few seconds of quiet, then Smith stepped quietly out of the room. He listened. Murmured voices outside his door. He figured that. Smith was leaving someone there, to keep an eye on him when he 'woke up'. Not a problem. He'd taken that into account. It might get a little hairy if Smith thought about the window; but then, why would he?  
  
He waited a few more minutes, carefully checking his watch. Everything hinged on Mick being where he usually was at that particular time of day; he was counting on the fact that Mick would not want to raise suspicions any more than they already were. When it was time, he slipped out of bed and crept to the door. Listened. He couldn't hear anything, but that was meaningless. He moved to the window, carefully moving the curtain enough to see clearly. Good. The way was clear.  
  
As he cautiously opened the window and climbed out, he decided it was a good thing Smith had posted someone outside his door.  
  
He would just have to erase any traces outside his window.  
  
Perfect.  
  
*****  
  
"It's legit, Colonel. Mick told me about it earlier. One of his shipments was hijacked last night. He found out who did it, now they just have to, uh, straighten things out."  
  
"You've already got the euphemisms down pat, haven't you?"  
  
Daryl had the grace to blush.  
  
"So, you've decided, then. You won't be going with us. Have you told Kurt?"  
  
"Not yet. I, uh, kinda thought..."  
  
"That when the time came, I'd tell him we were leaving without you? You think that's right, Daryl?"  
  
"I think it's best in the long run, make the break cold."  
  
"Are you going with the others tonight? To 'straighten things out'?"  
  
"No. Mick asked me, but I told him I didn't want to get involved in that part of the business. Besides, I thought I'd be of more use to you here."  
  
Hannibal raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I can keep Mick occupied, have a discussion with him about just what I will do in his organization. It's something that needs to be talked over anyway. That way if you want to move out a little earlier..."  
  
Hannibal nodded. "Well, I won't say I'm disappointed, because you know that. I will say I appreciate all that you've done for us, for Face. If you ever change your mind, you have a place to come. Remember that."  
  
"I will, Colonel. I appreciate it." He looked at his watch. "Well, I have a few things to take care of before I meet with Mick. I don't know if I'll see you before you take off..."  
  
"Good luck, Daryl."  
  
Hannibal watched, regretfully, as the young man walked away. Wondered what the hell Kurt was going to do, when he found out...  
  
*****  
  
It was easy enough getting in to see Mick. His men were used to his coming and going, unfettered, to see their boss. And they wouldn't be disturbed. Mick's men knew better. They never disturbed the boss while he was in conference. Never.  
  
Mick looked a little surprised to see him. Then concerned.  
  
"Problem, my friend?"  
  
He just shook his head. Nodded outside.  
  
"Oh, you're wondering about the preparations. Not to worry. I've already explained to both Smith and my nephew about a hijacked shipment. They won't think anything of it." Mick looked at him, speculatively. "You're going with Smith tonight?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Well, don't worry about Stockwell. I've already told Leandro to make sure the General doesn't get his hands on you. He'll make sure you have plenty of opportunity to slip away."  
  
You lie so well, Mick.  
  
"Of course, you're welcome to come back here. I could use a man of your talents."  
  
Nice try, Mick. But I have other plans.  
  
He moved casually around the room, looking at the various knick-knacks, photos. Mick watched him, curious. Not yet suspicious.  
  
"Oh, Daryl's decided to stay on. You and he could work together, if you'd like." Mick chuckled. "I'd be unbeatable with you two around."  
  
You're already beaten; you just don't know it yet, Mickey.  
  
He had moved to the shelves behind Mick's desk now. Mick had turned in his chair, forced to look up at him. Curiosity was leaving; suspicion moving in. Time was running out.  
  
"Was there something in particular you wanted, Lieutenant?" There was a slight edge to Mick's voice.  
  
He turned, looked down at Mick. Smiled.  
  
And moved.  
  
*****  
  
"Everything quiet?"  
  
"Hasn't stirred, Hannibal. I looked in a few minutes ago and he was still sleeping."  
  
"Okay, you go ahead and get something to eat. I'll go in and wait for him to wake up. He might as well get used to my being with him. Remember, everyone eats, then go to your rooms and wait. When you see the coast is clear, head out."  
  
"Got it, Colonel."  
  
Murdock moved down the hallway, and Hannibal turned to the door. He knocked softly before entering. Face was still in bed, but stirred as Hannibal stepped into the room.  
  
"Hey, Face. Sleep well?"  
  
A pair of blue eyes stared back at him, calmly.  
  
"We'll be heading out tonight, Face. You and I will head out later, after everyone's gone to bed. You okay with that?"  
  
A moment's hesitation, then a nod.  
  
"Good. How about we get something to eat, then we'll come back here and just take it easy for a while? Okay?"  
  
Hannibal watched as Face slid soundlessly out of bed, slipped into his shoes, and waited. Smiling, the Colonel led the way out of the room and down the hall.  
  
Maybe BA wasn't all that astute, after all...  
  
*****  
  
Daryl sat in the chair, facing the windows, watching the sun fade out behind the mountains. He'd been sitting there for some time now, thinking. He had a lot of decisions to make now. Decisions that could affect a lot of people.  
  
Mick hadn't shown up for supper; that wasn't unusual, especially with a job going down. He'd fixed a plate and taken it to Mick's office. Figured they could talk things over while Mick ate. He'd nodded to the guard at the door, exchanged some pleasantries, then Daryl had gone on in.  
  
At first, he thought Mick had fallen asleep at his desk. He'd smiled, sympathetic. Mick worked way too hard, too many irons in the fire. It had been another reason Daryl had decided to stay. He could take a lot of the background crap off Mick's shoulders. Let Mick deal only with that part of the operations that Daryl didn't really want to know about anyway. He'd set the plate on the table by the window and gone to waken his uncle.  
  
The minute he touched him, he knew. Gently, he'd pulled him up from the desk, so Mick was sitting up in the chair, and checked his carotid. Sighed. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. Mick wasn't young any more, and there'd been a lot of stress lately, but he hadn't thought he would just go, just like that. It was a shock. It hurt.  
  
Daryl stood there for several minutes. He needed to let someone know. Leandro. He'd know what to do. Mick would have had things in place for this. But Leandro was with the men, on their way to deal with the hijackers. Sighing in frustration, Daryl looked once more at his uncle. That's when he saw it.  
  
He supposed the initial shock of finding his uncle dead had made him miss it at first. That was the only excuse he could think of for not seeing it immediately. He leaned down, looked closer. Neat. Very neat. A coroner probably would have missed it. Only another professional would have seen it. That very little dabble of blood in the nostril. It didn't come from Mick hitting his face on the desk. There wasn't enough blood for that. Besides, Daryl knew exactly what had caused it. He'd never done it himself, but he knew how.  
  
A very thin, long needle, shoved up the nostril, up into the brain. Instantaneous death. Quick. Quiet.  
  
There were several people at the ranch who could've done it. Only two he knew who might have.  
  
So Daryl sat in the chair, facing the windows, watching the sun fade out behind the mountains. He had a lot of decisions to make now.


	67. Chapter 67

BA had stayed in the library all evening, shooting pool, first with Kurt, then by himself. Twice, Mick's people had stuck their heads in the door, checking him out. No one had come around for over an hour now. The clock on the mantel struck the half hour; he played a couple more desultory games. At exactly one o'clock, with no further intrusions, BA carefully placed the cue against the table, as if he were just taking a short break, and headed for the patio doors.  
  
This was the dicey part. He'd deliberately left the lights on in the library, to reinforce the idea that he had just stepped out; it also left him wide open to view. He stepped outside, closing the doors behind him, and stood, stretching slightly. If anyone were to look, all they would see was a bored houseguest, taking some air. He strolled casually to the edge of the patio, waiting to hear a warning call.  
  
Nothing.  
  
With an alacrity that would have surprised most people, BA was over the patio wall and into the bushes by the house. He stopped again, crouched, waiting.  
  
Nothing.  
  
In a few minutes, he'd worked his way to the open area he'd been just the night before. He wondered, not for the first time, about the missing guard. He'd been in the dining room with the others that morning, when Leandro had come in, informing Mick about the sudden disappearance. Mick had frowned, tensing along with the rest. They'd all immediately thought Stockwell's people had come back. But then Mick had stammered out that he'd forgotten about sending the man home; something about a family emergency. BA couldn't swear to it, but he was pretty sure he'd caught a quick look between Mick and Face just before that. He'd mentioned it to Hannibal later, but the Colonel had just frowned and told BA he was getting paranoid.  
  
BA shook his head. Better to be a little paranoid than blind. He took a quick look around before rushing for his stand of trees. Another quick look before running across the clearing. He waited a full five minutes before he left the shelter of the rocks and headed into the hills.  
  
*****  
  
It was after one, and Frankie was pacing. He was anxious to get going, and yet, he didn't want to leave his room. It was one thing to go on assignments with the guys, knowing they were close at hand. It was another thing to know he would have to sneak past Mick's guards and get all the way to the cave completely on his own. He stepped over to the door, opening it just a crack. All clear. He could leave now. Just walk out the door, down the hall...Yep. Piece of cake. He quietly closed the door and resumed his pacing.  
  
It was maybe twenty minutes later that he heard the quiet knock on the door. Panic almost took over - Mick's guys, come to take him away. The knock came again, a little louder.  
  
"Frankie! Open up!"  
  
He almost melted to the floor. Hurrying over, he opened the door and stepped back as Murdock pushed through. The pilot turned and grinned wildly at him.  
  
"Hey, Frankie. Ready to fly the coop, blow this Popsicle stand, take a hike?" Only Murdock could sound giddy while whispering. "Or you decide to stay on for a while?"  
  
"Murdock, man, hey, I'm cool. I was just, y'know, making sure things were quiet..."  
  
"Uh huh. Okay, well, I just kinda realized that I didn't know exac-a-tally where this old cave of yours was, which could be problematic. So I thought I'd tag along with you. Whaddya say, ol' buddy?"  
  
Frankie looked skeptically at Murdock. "Johnny sent you, didn't he?"  
  
"Well, he thought you might need a little, uh, backup..."  
  
Frankie looked around the room, embarrassed at being, once again, the one that had to have 'backup'. "Sorry, Murdock."  
  
"No problemo, Frankie. Besides, the Nighthawks haven't worked a gig for a long time, y'know?" He winked at Frankie.  
  
"Ahh, man, don't even bring that up again! Let's just get outta here, okay, Murdock? The further we are from here, the better I'll like it."  
  
Murdock immediately sobered. He'd managed to get Frankie relaxed and that would be half the battle. Tense people made mistakes, and they couldn't afford any tonight. He quickly turned off the light, and he and Frankie waited for a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkened room. Gently plucking at Frankie's arm, he pulled him toward the window.  
  
A moment later, they were slipping quietly through the shadows around the house.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt stood a few yards from the mouth of the cave. He could hear BA inside, tinkering with the motor of the ancient van he'd gotten. Murdock and Frankie had arrived a short time before them, and were trying to make the inside of the van more accommodating for the long trip ahead. Maggie was sitting on a log a short distance from him, watching anxiously for the rest of the team. She and Kurt had run into a minor detour on their way here; Kurt had had to feign a sprained wrist in order to get away from them. Even then, the two guards had insisted on escorting them to the small infirmary off the kitchen. Only when Maggie had actually started wrapping Kurt's wrist had they left them alone. Calm until they reached the cave, Maggie was now mindlessly pulling apart every plant within reach of her perch, eyes glued to the ranch buildings below.  
  
Kurt was forcing his own anxieties into the background. He scanned the countryside, watching for any of Mick's patrols, any sign of trouble from the ranch itself. Making himself think and act like the professional he was, trying not to think about Daryl.  
  
And failing.  
  
He had been trying all day to get his partner alone, to talk to him, try to convince him to come along tonight. But Daryl had stayed out of reach, either ensconced with Mick, or dealing with the men who were going after Mick's hijackers. Kurt wasn't fooled. While everything Daryl was involved in was necessary, it was equally obvious that Daryl was using the circumstances to avoid any confrontation with him. Now, waiting for the rest of the men to show up, Kurt had accepted the fact that Daryl most likely would not.  
  
Part of him wanted to go back down to the ranch and physically drag Daryl's ass up to the cave. Part of him had almost decided to go back and stay, if only to keep Daryl from getting pulled into the seamier side of Mick's operations. The rest of him admitted defeat, and felt it.  
  
He could feel the others glancing over at him. Did they already know? Were they just waiting for the Colonel and Sam to get here before dropping the bombshell? Or were they as much in the dark as he was?  
  
He saw it before he heard it. Movement down the hill, heading toward the cave. His gun was out, ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frankie grab Maggie and pull her into the cave, while Murdock and BA took their positions.  
  
A few minutes later, Hannibal and Sam stepped out of the bushes. Sam looked calm, but you could almost feel the energy buzzing inside. Hannibal grinned widely at them all - until he saw Kurt.  
  
Kurt put his gun away and walked silently into the cave.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl had gone over and over what he should do, what he could do. It finally boiled down to what he had to do. And he didn't like it. But there was really no choice.  
  
If Mick had just been any man, Daryl could have allowed the autopsy to go as usual and chances were nothing would be found amiss. But this was Alberto "The Mick" Marucchi. If he'd been in his eighties, maybe no one would have thought his death unusual. But not at his age. Whoever did the autopsy would be expected to check and double-check everything. Suspicion as to the cause of death would be endemic. And they would find out.  
  
At first, Daryl had tried to delude himself about that. Thought if he just acted as if Mick had died of natural causes, no one would press the matter. The more he realized that that wouldn't happen, the more he also realized that any pretenses he put up would only push him further to the front line of suspicion. Particularly when it was discovered that in his will, Mick had put Daryl in charge of damn near everything. Put Daryl over and above his own two sons. Daryl hadn't known that until he'd gone through Mick's safe.  
  
It had been an automatic response, his soul's way of dealing with the shock and pain. Slipped into his agent mold, and searched the office thoroughly for any documents that might be of value. The will, dated shortly after Daryl had joined Stockwell, for heaven's sake, was at the back of Mick's wall safe. That, and lists of all of Mick's holdings, interests and contacts. A gold mine for the Feds. Daryl had glanced through them and placed them back in the safe. Had that will been Mick's way of getting his nephew away from the General in the end?  
  
If ever there was a motive for killing Mick, the will spelled it out in capital letters. He could, of course, tell the truth, that he hadn't known anything about it. Considering the date it was made out, and the fact that no one knew if Daryl had decided to stay, he could probably live through it. But it also meant that Mick's family would be looking for the real murderer. And his accomplices. And they wouldn't stop until they found them and meted out justice.  
  
Daryl couldn't put the Colonel in that position. He was well aware of the team's track record with the military, and so far, they had managed to stay clear of Stockwell, although barely. But if they thought the General was ruthless, they would find new meaning in that word, dealing with Mick's people. Daryl thought about Mick's two sons, Ben and Nicky. Cruel and sadistic in business, motivated by revenge, they would be virtual juggernauts. They would look for the team, certainly. But if they couldn't find them, they would go after the targets they could find - Maggie, for starters. Daryl shuddered to think what they would do to her.  
  
So, Daryl had no choice. He couldn't stay here. Not that he wanted to, not now. He'd only even considered it because of Mick. But he wouldn't be able to just leave. He would have to make sure no one went after the team. That they would have no reason to go after the team. Ever. And there was only one way to do that.  
  
He glanced at the clock. He still had time. He knew how both the Colonel and Kurt thought. Despite what Daryl had told Smith, they would wait until the last minute before leaving. Just in case Daryl changed his mind.  
  
He had a lot to do before he could go. With Leandro away, it was actually easier. The man in charge would do exactly what Daryl told him to do, without question. By the time Leandro returned, and contacted Ben and Nicky, the team would be long gone.  
  
And Daryl would be right there with them.


	68. Chapter 68

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I thought he might change his mind. But we have to get moving. It'll be daylight soon and I want to be a long way from here before then."  
  
"I understand, Colonel. I'd hoped he'd come with us, too, but I can understand his thinking. After all, what does he have to look forward to? Running from Stockwell? Versus a pretty lucrative life with Mick. Like there's a choice..."  
  
Hannibal happened to think otherwise, but he wasn't about to say anything. He found it hard to believe that Daryl would really stay with Mick. But then again, Hannibal hadn't had much of a family to be loyal to, so what would he know? He looked over at his men, sitting around waiting for the order to move out. Thought about a life without them, versus the one he had now. Maybe he could understand, after all.  
  
Hannibal took one last look around. There hadn't been a sign of movement from the ranch, and the only sounds around them came from the local wildlife. It was time.  
  
"All right, let's move out."  
  
No one looked at Kurt as they moved toward the van and started climbing in. They all knew what he must be thinking, feeling.  
  
Hannibal waited until everyone else was in the van before approaching Face, who was sitting on the log Maggie had previously occupied. He was staring intently down the hill, toward the ranch. He seemed calm, but earlier, when Murdock had approached him, he had moved away. It was obvious he was letting them know where his comfort zone was. It was going to be tough, dealing with the close quarters in the van.  
  
"Face? We need to go now."  
  
Face didn't move, just kept staring down the hill.  
  
"Face, remember, you were going to meet that guy I told you about? We have to leave now, so you can do that."  
  
Still no response. Hannibal sighed in frustration. Face had been cooperating so far; why did he have to cause a problem now?  
  
"Face, look, I know it's going to be pretty close quarters in the van, but no one's going to bother you. Tell you what, you sit up front with BA, okay? You won't have to be any nearer to anyone than that."  
  
Hannibal looked over at the van, starting to lose patience. He couldn't let Face jeopardize everyone's chances of getting out of here. He was about to grab Face's arm when the man suddenly stood, looking off to the right. Hannibal stopped dead, knowing without even listening, that someone was coming. He pulled his pistol, waiting.  
  
*****  
  
He'd spent the last few hours in his room, waiting in uncomfortable silence with Smith. Every now and then, the Colonel would make some attempt at small talk, but he ignored him. He was waiting, wondering who would find Mick, what they would do. He had figured it would be Daryl; almost counted on it. No one else left on the ranch would have any reason to visit the man. But he couldn't be sure. One could never be sure. So you made contingency plans. And hoped you wouldn't have to use them.  
  
When Smith had finally decided it was time to leave for the cave, he'd followed without argument. He knew if anyone other than Daryl had discovered the body, they would all be in 'custody'. Or dead. So he knew Daryl had found him, and was deciding what to do about it. He dismissed the emotional reaction the agent might be experiencing; that wasn't important. What was important was that Daryl think straight, and make the decisions he was supposed to. It wasn't just Daryl's future he was thinking about.  
  
His own success depended on that.  
  
It had been difficult traveling cross country with only the moon for light. His shoulder screamed at him every time he stumbled, but he refused to let Smith get close enough to lend a hand. He had himself under control but only just. He knew, instinctively, how far he could push himself and he wasn't about to go any farther. He worried briefly about the van. Another reason Daryl had to come to his senses. Daryl was his insurance policy. Because Daryl would know who had killed Mick, and that meant no one else would get their hands on him.  
  
They arrived at the cave with about an hour before the deadline for leaving. He found a log, sat down thankfully, and started watching for Daryl. He heard Smith talking to Kurt, explaining how Daryl had decided to stay with Mick, how sorry he was, on and on. He wanted to tell Kurt not to worry, that he'd fixed it, but, of course, didn't. Kurt would survive a little anxiety. He tuned them out, concentrated on the hillside below him.  
  
After a while, he didn't know how long exactly, Smith's voice filtered through to him. Saying something about going to see that guy. The priest. He wondered why Smith didn't come right out and say it; afraid he'd refuse to go? He ignored the voice, the words. He wasn't going anywhere yet. Daryl would come. He had to. He had no other choice now.  
  
He heard Smith moving closer to him almost at the same time he heard the branch snap. He stood immediately. He had to be the first one Daryl saw. Because then Daryl would know, for sure.  
  
*****  
  
Finished with the letter, he signed it "Daryl Marucchi". Hadn't used that name in some time. But it was his. About time he reclaimed it. He folded the letter, slid it into the envelope and wrote Leandro's name on it. An identical letter, addressed to Mick's sons, was already on the desk. Daryl had spent some time on the letter. He wanted it to be very clear what he was doing. Mick had died on his watch; it was his responsibility, not theirs. Duty to the family was something Ben and Nicky would respect. That's why he'd written the letters. He stood up from the table, straightened his hair, and moved to the door.  
  
He spoke quickly and firmly with the guard outside the door. The man was shaken, and looked scared. No wonder. Mick had died while he stood outside the door. Ben and Nicky would deal with him when they got down here. Daryl had made some promises, wanting to make sure the guy did as he was told. He knew all along they were meaningless; that was the chance you took when you worked for someone like Mick. Welcome to the real world.  
  
It took him less than ten minutes to get ready. He didn't worry about the guards seeing him. No one would stop him or question what he was doing. He smiled, mirthlessly. If they knew Mick was dead in his office, it might be another story. But until the guard reached Leandro, no one would know anything. That would give them the time they needed.  
  
He nearly sprinted up the hillside, finally having to stop and catch his breath. He glanced at his watch; running out of time. The Colonel would not wait forever, although Daryl figured he would give him a little extra, just in case. He had to make it. He couldn't let the team get away.  
  
He was scrambling through the brush now, just a few more yards to go. He stepped awkwardly on a large branch, which cracked like sharp thunder. Well, they'd know someone was coming. He pushed through some bushes and found himself looking at two men, one with a gun drawn and pointing right at him.  
  
"It's me, Colonel. Don't shoot." He spoke to Smith, but his eyes were on Sam. They stood for a moment, staring at each other.  
  
"Daryl?" The Colonel was obviously surprised. "I'm glad to see you, but what made you change your mind? You sounded pretty firm this morning. Did Mick say something, or suspect..."  
  
"No, nothing like that, Colonel. I just...came to my senses." Daryl remained looking at Sam. He could swear he saw him nod, ever so slightly. "I think we'd better get going, Colonel. We don't have a lot of time before sunrise."  
  
Hannibal looked from Daryl to Face, then back. Something was off, but he had no idea what it could be, and no time right now to find out.  
  
"You're right, we need to go. I was just trying to talk Face into getting into the van, but he doesn't seem too enthusiastic about it. I was afraid he wouldn't care for the cramped quarters, but..."  
  
"Don't worry about it, Colonel." Daryl stepped up to Sam, looked him right in the eye. Sam never blinked. "It's okay. Sam will sit next to me, by the door. Right, Sam?"  
  
Sam tilted his head just a bit, as if considering the question, and Daryl saw the smallest of smiles play on his lips. Small it might have been, but it was the coldest smile Daryl had ever seen. Without another word, Sam turned and headed toward the cave. Daryl watched him go, feeling the Colonel's eyes on him. He turned and looked over at the man he had come to respect, and felt nothing but regret.  
  
"I think Sam and I have an understanding now, Colonel. I can't explain it, but don't worry about him. In the end, everything will work out for the best."  
  
Hannibal's eyes were frigid. "I hope so, Daryl. I'm going to do my damndest to make sure it does."  
  
Daryl accepted the unspoken warning. The Colonel wasn't fooled; he knew there was something wrong with this whole thing. And most likely suspected Mick was involved. Daryl only hoped he would understand, some day.  
  
The two men walked silently to the van.


	69. Chapter 69

The sun had come up a couple hours before, but sitting in the windowless back of the van, he could hardly tell. It had been an uncomfortable ride so far; six people crowded together, sitting on blankets, nothing to keep their backs from banging against the metal sides. Baracus and the doctor had it the easiest, sitting up front, but even their seats were worn, almost cushion-less. With every new pothole or rock they hit, his shoulder shot bolts through his body. It was getting harder and harder to keep things in check.  
  
No one had said much of anything for most of the trip. Smith, Murdock and Santana sat on one side, facing Kurt and Daryl. He, himself, sat with his back to the corner formed by the side door and the front passenger seat, where he could see all of them without moving his head. That's how he knew who was glancing toward him, how often, how long. His head leaned back against the seat, uncomfortable, but he could pretend to keep his eyes shut and still watch. As long as they thought he was asleep, they left him alone. Didn't see the growing distress in his eyes. They couldn't see that, mustn't see that. Never show them his weakness.  
  
He focused on Daryl. What was his plan, now? He knew nothing would happen with the rest of them around. In fact, he counted on that. No, Daryl would want to get him away from the rest, far away, so they couldn't interfere. And that fit into his own plans perfectly. He and Daryl would slip away on some pretense, and when they were far enough, Daryl would make his move. Or try to. He really didn't think Daryl had it in him to kill coldly, for revenge. But then again, maybe this family thing really was that strong. It was risky, having an unknown in the equation. Not knowing how potent the motivation really was.  
  
He couldn't understand that. That whole family thing. That connection. Smith put great stock in it, too. Didn't they know? Were they really that stupid? Didn't they have the prime example of that falsehood right in front of them?  
  
He looked past Daryl, to Kurt. Now there was a pair. Two men he thought were his, thought would back him up, thought what had happened in California would carry through. Two men he thought were as close as brothers. Now, Daryl had his own plans for him, and Kurt had joined Smith's precious team. What about that connection?  
  
And Smith, himself. Along with those other clowns. How could they act as if being a part of the team was something special, something to hold dear above anything else - had they forgotten what they had done to him? He was supposed to be part of that team, that wondrous thing, and they had turned their back on him. Let Stockwell and Barish do those things to him. And when that failed, they'd tried to turn him against Randy.  
  
This was the connection they thought he should crave?  
  
Of course, they had been right about Randy. He allowed himself a brief moment to wallow in the irony, the bitterness, of that. It was yet again another example of how truly worthless this 'connection', this 'family' shit was. The one person in the world he would trust with his life, and...  
  
He closed his eyes tightly. Enough. Randy was dead, and that was good. Saved him the trouble of killing the bastard. And he would have had to. His plans would have come to nothing if Randy had lived.  
  
He turned his thoughts back to Daryl. He wouldn't try anything today, probably not tomorrow. They both knew Smith was suspicious of him. So he would wait, lull Smith into a false sense of security. But it would be before they reached the States, before they hit the freeways and lost the opportunities of the back roads. Before Mick's people decided it had taken too long...  
  
The van bounced in and out of a particularly bad pothole. Taken by surprise, he couldn't help the small grunt as his shoulder slammed into the door.  
  
"BA! Pull over." Smith was looking at him. Damn.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had been watching Face and Daryl from the time the first light started filtering into the van. That 'understanding' that the two men had bothered him. Daryl's sudden change of heart, with no real explanation, Face seeming to know that Daryl was coming...none of it made sense.  
  
Unless, of course, Mick had a hand in all of it.  
  
For the first time, Hannibal started thinking that maybe his lieutenant wasn't as trustworthy as he would like to believe. It was the only way anything did make sense. Face hadn't allowed anyone close to him without trouble - until Mick had talked to him. And then it was only Mick's people he let into his little circle, none of the team. There had to be a reason. It wasn't just that he didn't trust Hannibal or the rest of the team; he had no reason to trust Mick, either. So why?  
  
Because there was some benefit in it for him. Face didn't have to trust someone to use them. That had never been a part of his scams. What he did trust was his knowledge of how people thought; that innate understanding of human nature, correction, the dark side of human nature. He wanted something, and he knew how to use the greed, the vanity, the wants and needs of others to get that something. So what did Face want? Simple.  
  
He wanted out.  
  
Obviously, the team wouldn't help him accomplish that. But Mick could. And probably would, if he thought Face had something he could use in return. But what did Face have, what could Face get, that Mick could use? Simple, again.  
  
Knowledge.  
  
Not only knowledge of the team and how they operated, but knowledge gleaned over the last couple of days, knowledge freely, if vicariously, given him as he wandered the house, seemingly unaware of what was going on around him. Every detail of the plan to escape.  
  
Except the route. Hannibal had never discussed that in the open, with the entire team. Hadn't had the chance. That had been done one by one, getting ideas, pro's and con's, and then finally, he'd let each of them know exactly how they were going. In case they got separated for some reason and would need to rendezvous somewhere along the route. There were only two he hadn't told.  
  
So they should be okay. Mick's men were gone, chasing after hijackers. Supposedly. Instinctively, he glanced toward the back of the van, even though he couldn't see what was behind them. No, BA would have noticed anyone following them. This road wasn't that heavily traveled; headlights behind them would've immediately turned BA to evasion mode. And that hadn't happened.  
  
No one else would have told Daryl the actual route chosen. For his sake, as well as their own. No one wanted to put him in a position of conflicting loyalties. They had taken a big enough chance just telling him about the rest of the plan.  
  
And why tell Face? When it was almost a challenge just to get him to stay in the same room with them. When it was considered a coup if anyone could elicit any kind of positive response from him. Hannibal himself had been almost braggingly proud of getting that smile from him. Which was ridiculous. Like a bunch of uncles cooing over an infant, to see who could become a member of the elite group the child would reward with a smile instead of a cry. Ridiculous, all right. Hannibal almost blushed, thinking about getting caught up in that. If he hadn't been so desperate for some sign of the old Face, he probably would have just taken it in stride. Only someone really insecure would...  
  
Hannibal stopped short. Only someone insecure would feel the need to seek Face's attention. Who felt their own position on the team was in need of some bolstering. Only someone who wanted to prove something to Hannibal, because Hannibal was so obviously in Face's corner. And if Face gave that person any recognition, showed any interest in that person, that person would go all out to solidify his new position of favor.  
  
And if Face wasn't as off as Hannibal thought, he would have recognized that need. Encouraged it. Played it.  
  
And there was only one person who would've said or done damn near anything to keep that attention. Who had that need. Who could be played that easily.  
  
So how much did Mick know?  
  
And where were his men, really? Waiting up ahead somewhere? Possibly with Stockwell's people? And what about Daryl? Loyal to Mick, wanting to stay with him. Until the last minute. The only one of them Face was suddenly comfortable with.  
  
Hannibal looked over at Face again. Eyes closed, silent as a sphinx. Calm. Now. Had been noticeably nervous in the van until Daryl sat down next to him.  
  
Hannibal found himself wishing he'd listened more to BA. He knew, he just knew, that Face was hurting, had to be. His shoulder was only just healed up, and this road had to be pure torture. And yet he kept that facade up. If he could do that, what else had he been able to hide? Hannibal had claimed to be able to see through any of Face's scams. Had he been too confident? Or was all the stress of the past few months coming to a head, making him as paranoid as Face?  
  
The van hit a bump that jarred them all. Hannibal heard Face moan, saw the grimace that was almost immediately controlled. So he wasn't superhuman, after all. For a brief second, Hannibal thought of letting the road do what they hadn't been able to, break through that barrier of self-control Face had maintained for so long. And was just as quickly ashamed for the thought. This was one of his, and the man was hurting.  
  
"BA! Pull over."


	70. Chapter 70

Daryl watched as the Colonel tried, in vain, to get Sam to let Dr. Sullivan look at his shoulder. Impassive as a mountain, and just as unyielding, Sam just kept backing away from the two of them. BA moved around to the side, shooting a questioning look at Smith, but the Colonel just shrugged and shook his head. Sam stepped carefully over to a large boulder and settled himself down, watching the others as they climbed stiffly from the van. While his face remained bland, there was a flash in his eyes that told everyone Sam was strictly off-limits.  
  
Daryl was not happy with this development. He hadn't wanted to stop so soon, and he didn't want Sam closing himself off. At least not to him. Sam obviously thought Daryl should be grateful to him for taking care of Mick; it was a macabre olive branch offered, and Daryl didn't want to lose it. He needed Sam cooperative, at ease with him. Slowly he stepped toward him. He knew it was dangerous, but he had to hold on to that connection.  
  
*****  
  
He moved slowly, stiffly, continually. Backing away, willing them to leave him alone, preparing himself if they didn't. He saw Baracus moving to the side. Not a good idea. He tensed, ready. Then it was over; Smith gave up, and he allowed himself to relax. He lowered himself down on a boulder, feeling the throbbing in his shoulder, ignoring it. Watched as the rest of the men climbed out of the van and stretched.  
  
He hadn't expected this. They were still too close to the ranch for stopping. Smith should know that. Another case of letting emotions interfere with good tactics. Although he had to admit it was a damn relief to be out of that van, able to put some distance between himself and the others. The question now was what Daryl planned to do. Would he make his move this early? He hoped to hell not. Not that he couldn't deal with it, but he was still too close to the ranch. He didn't want to deal with Mick's men on top of everything else. He knew he wasn't up to that. Not yet.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Daryl walking toward him. He steeled himself. He didn't give a damn any more about the rest of them, but he needed Daryl on his side, at least for now. Daryl had to think he was off-guard with him. He had to keep Daryl thinking they were on the same side. He forced himself to stay calm as Daryl knelt down beside him.  
  
*****  
  
Leandro was livid. He pushed the jeep to its limits, taking shortcuts cross country whenever possible. He had to get back to the ranch before those men had gotten too far. Had to track them down, make them pay. All of them. Including that good for nothing nephew. He'd brought those men to the ranch. This was his fault. He would pay.  
  
The moment he pulled into the courtyard, he was shouting orders. The other men, still ignorant of Mick's fate, were puzzled at his anger but immediately raced to his bidding. It took less than ten minutes for them to find the cave and the tracks leading from it. Leandro wasn't surprised at the direction they had taken - just the opposite of the one that man had told Mick. There was only one road for them to take; with the jeep, Leandro could outflank the winding road and catch up with them in only a few hours.  
  
He gave his second in command terse orders and, without waiting for reinforcements, took off in the refueled jeep.  
  
He never went to the office. He never read the letter left for him.  
  
It wouldn't have mattered.  
  
*****  
  
"Sam..."  
  
Daryl watched carefully as Sam looked down at him. He was pale, but his eyes were sharp. Good, he was probably thinking clearly enough, then.  
  
"The Colonel wants Dr. Sullivan to check out your shoulder, Sam. I know you don't want any of them near you, but it would sure help if you could do that. Calm everybody down a little. So they wouldn't need to watch you so closely. I know you don't like that." Sam didn't respond, just kept watching, impassive. "You and I have some things to discuss, Sam. We don't need them watching us, right? We need them relaxed. So we can take care of business. When it's time."  
  
Sam looked at him, eyes squinting. Daryl could almost hear the wheels grinding inside as he considered his options. Crazy? Yeah, like a fox. Sam looked over at Colonel Smith, and, after another long moment, nodded, ever so slightly. Daryl breathed a sigh of relief and moved quickly over to Smith.  
  
*****  
  
BA wasn't happy. He was checking over the van while Maggie checked over Face. The coolant in the radiator was still at a good level, and the temperature gauge told him everything was fine, but the engine compartment seemed too warm to him. Something wasn't right, and this was not the time or place for a breakdown. He started the van up and hurried to the front, watching every moving part for a possible problem. Nothing. Damn.  
  
When Hannibal called for them to move out, BA really wasn't happy. He would have preferred to spend some time really checking over the engine but he knew they hadn't put enough distance between themselves and the ranch yet. Shaking his head, he pulled Hannibal aside and explained his concerns. Hannibal was not at all happy.  
  
"I thought you checked it out, BA."  
  
"I did, Hannibal. Everything looked good. Still does. But that engine just seems too hot. There's somethin goin on that ain't right; I just need time to find it and fix it."  
  
Hannibal sighed. He knew BA had done everything right; there was nothing the man didn't know about engines. "All right, BA. Will it last until nightfall?"  
  
"If we don't run the AC, Colonel. That would put too much strain on it."  
  
"Well, there's no way we can survive the afternoon heat without it. Damn." Hannibal looked back down the road they had just traveled. Things just weren't looking good. He figured they had only a short time before Mick's men were on their way after them, if they weren't already. But it wouldn't do any good to run the van into the ground, either.  
  
"Okay, BA. Put as many miles as you can on it, then find a place with good cover. We'll hold up for the afternoon and give you time to get it fixed. But we have to get out of here by nightfall. There's no way we can take any more time than that."  
  
BA nodded and climbed into the van, offering a silent prayer. He knew they were about to lose any advantage they might have had...  
  
*****  
  
They were bumping along the road again, the heat inside rising along with the sun. Daryl sat back, watching Sam, who now rested against a padding of blankets Murdock had fashioned to help protect his shoulder. Sam had allowed Maggie to examine him, but had refused to let her bind up the shoulder or give him any painkillers. The others thought he was just too spooked for it; Daryl knew he wanted to be ready, just in case. Whether he was thinking of Mick's people, or of Daryl, he wasn't sure.  
  
The anger he had felt after finding his uncle was still there, as was the grief. But the cold, calculating part of his mind had shut down. He knew this was still necessary; it was the only way to keep Mick's sons from extracting their own revenge on the entire team. But it made him sick. Disgusted. And those very feelings made him realize what a mistake he had been about to make, how disastrous it would have been for him to stay with Mick. Because he knew, deep in his heart, that eventually Mick would start pushing him to enter the other part of his business, to become more and more involved in the hands-on dirty work. It would have been necessary, to make sure Daryl stayed, and stayed loyal. To make him a part of everything. To make him as guilty as all the rest.  
  
Why he hadn't realized this before, Daryl could only chalk up to desperation. Wanting so badly to be out of Stockwell's world, but seeing no other alternative. Maybe that's why he'd thought of Mick to begin with. Mick had always provided an out, a way to salvage the messes Daryl found himself in. It was almost instinct to turn to the man again. And see where that had gotten him.  
  
He glanced over at the Colonel, unnerved to see those piercing blue eyes staring right back at him. Smith was not going to let Daryl off the hook. He would demand to know about the 'understanding' Daryl and Sam had suddenly developed. Daryl couldn't explain things to him yet; not until...not until Sam had been dealt with. He just hoped he could stay out of Smith's way until then...  
  
He didn't know if he was relieved or not when BA pulled off the hot, dusty road and forced the van up into a small stand of trees. He knew that when they left here, at least one of them would be left behind.  
  
*****  
  
Leandro had overshot his target. Finding some fieldworkers along the road, he learned there had been no traffic along the road all morning. He looked up at the sun, throwing down its heat with a vengeance. As used to it as he was, even he was feeling the effects. He thought about all those people in one vehicle. Either they had stopped somewhere to wait out the heat, or whatever they were driving had broken down. It didn't matter; they would be sitting ducks out here. Especially since they would be watching behind them for trouble. He would be coming at them from the front.  
  
He climbed back in the jeep, casting a quick glance at the arsenal in the back.  
  
They didn't stand a chance.  
  
*****  
  
They had been resting for several hours. As soon as they had stepped out of the van, Hannibal had them tie blankets among the branches, forming an artificial canopy and providing more shade than the sparse leaves would. It prevented the sun from burning, but did little to keep the heat from depleting their already flagging energy. They set up a perimeter guard, two men, switching every hour. It was the longest Smith was willing to have any of them out in the sun.  
  
BA worked feverishly on the van. He'd discovered the culprit within a short time after they'd pulled off the road. The fan was shorting out after running for a period of time; the engine compartment was not getting cooled off, other than what little air came through the grillwork. With Hannibal watching with concern, he was trying to trace down the problem, hoping it would be nothing more than a loose connection.  
  
Daryl lay on the ground, pretending to doze. So far, the Colonel had been too busy setting up their temporary camp, assigning guard duty, and conferring with BA to confront him. But Daryl knew it was coming. He looked over at Sam, who was also dozing a few yards away. Supposedly. Daryl had an idea he was sleeping about like Daryl was. He looked around once more; the Colonel was deep in conversation with BA; Kurt and Murdock had just left for their turn on guard duty; Maggie and Frank were sleeping.  
  
It was time.  
  
He stood slowly, carefully, not wanting to bring any attention to himself. He moved over toward Sam, who opened his eyes immediately, silently acknowledging Daryl. Without a word, he, too, stood cautiously and moved away from the camp. Daryl hesitated for only a moment before following. Did Sam know what was coming? Or did he think they were meeting to make further plans? It didn't matter. Daryl didn't intend to give him time to realize what was actually happening. He didn't dare.  
  
*****  
  
The stone bounced off the grill of the van, and Hannibal and BA swung around, Hannibal's revolver coming up. With a sigh of frustration, he dropped it almost immediately. Exchanging mortified looks, he and BA moved back into camp, hands in the air, Leandro grinning behind them, his fully automatic rifle leveled at their backs.  
  
Moments later, Maggie and Frankie were standing beside them, hands also in the air. Leandro saw Hannibal glancing worriedly around.  
  
"You should keep better track of your men, Colonel." He spoke softly, not wanting to alert Kurt and Murdock. "That way." He again gestured with the rifle, and the four prisoners headed out of camp, following the path taken moments earlier by the other two members of the group. Soon, they were all gathered together, Leandro between them and the camp.  
  
The look of shock and anger on Daryl's face made Leandro want to laugh out loud. But he sobered when he saw the other man, still calm, unrattled. He would be first.  
  
"What's going on, Leandro? Didn't you get my note?" Daryl was trying very hard to act the leader. "I left instructions..."  
  
"No, I didn't read any note. I don't take orders from a traitor, a murderer!"  
  
Daryl paled visibly. "Leandro, I didn't kill Mick. I swear it!"  
  
Startled, Hannibal looked at Daryl. "Mick is dead? Why didn't you tell me, Daryl? What the hell is going on here?"  
  
"Shut up, all of you!" Leandro turned his weapon toward Face. "I know who the killer is. The same man who sent us on a wild goose chase, so we would be far away from the ranch when he murdered the patrón and helped his people get away." He glared at Daryl. "But you brought them to us; you convinced Mick that they were friends. If you hadn't come back, none of this would have happened. You deserve to die, as they all do! As they all will!" Leandro raised the rifle once more, finger on the trigger, aimed directly at Face. A grin spread across his face. "Le ver en el infierno!"  
  
Leandro's grin faltered as a single shot rang out. As he collapsed slowly to his knees, the gaping hole in his chest overflowed with his blood. The rifle fell to the ground, covered immediately by Leandro's dead body.  
  
Moments later, Kurt and Murdock came racing from the camp, stopping dead in their tracks, staring at Leandro and the group in front of him.  
  
"What the hell happened, Colonel?"


	71. Chapter 71

He stood apart from the others, his back to them, as they listened, with a mix of disbelief and distaste, to Daryl's tale of murder and vengeance. Old news. He could feel the eyes on him when Daryl described the way Mick had died. Didn't matter.  
  
Only two things mattered now.  
  
One, getting rid of the threat from Mick's sons and 'family'.  
  
Two, finding out who had killed Leandro. And why.  
  
The first was easy enough. He could take care of that in a matter of minutes, and would do so. Piece of cake.  
  
The other was not so easy.  
  
The shot had come from behind them, up in the hills. No one had come down in the intervening time, nor had they seen any movement from the area the shot had had to have come from. Whoever it was was apparently laying low, digging in. They could, of course, go up after him. But he knew it would do no good. The shooter was probably either hidden too well, or long gone. They were good, that's all he knew for sure. Too good.  
  
He realized he had been concentrating too hard on his speculations when he suddenly noted that Kurt was standing nearby. He, too, was watching the hillside. They caught each other's sidelong glances. Kurt smiled, sardonically.  
  
"I believe we've heard the devil beating his drum, my friend. And I doubt it will be the last time." Still smiling, Kurt sauntered away.  
  
He watched after him, contemplative. Turning his gaze back to the hills, he, too, smiled. His, however, was just a bit more venomous.  
  
*****  
  
"There's no other way, Colonel. None. Don't you understand that? If they can't find the killer, they will go after anyone and everyone who is close to you until they force your hand. And they won't stop with just roughing them up. We can't just ignore that!"  
  
"I don't intend to ignore it, Daryl. But I don't intend to resort to cold-blooded murder, either!"  
  
Hannibal was angry, more angry than he had ever thought possible. If he didn't keep reminding himself, forcefully, of Daryl's motivations, he would've gladly beaten the man into the ground. That he had re-joined the group, claiming a change of heart, when in reality he'd intended to murder Face...and yet, he'd done it to save them and those they cared about. Chosen that solution only because he didn't know Hannibal's methods, or how the team operated. He'd grown up with Mick, after all, and been with Stockwell too long. Way too long.  
  
Hannibal sighed. He had to get himself under control. There were so many things he had to consider. Like the shooter. In those few minutes before Murdock and Kurt had come rushing from their stations, he and the others had stood stock still, shocked and confused. Hannibal's first rational thought had been bandits, and he'd grabbed Maggie protectively, turning to see where the shot had come from. But when nothing more happened, he'd been as puzzled as the rest. Two things kept him from sending anyone up into the hills to search for their supposed benefactor. One, he couldn't be sure the shooter was really on their side. Two, he couldn't waste time looking when they knew the rest of Mick's people would soon be knocking on their door.  
  
They did know a few things now. With Mick dead, they had much more than just Stockwell to worry about. And the feelings of Mick's people would be strong, as Leandro had shown. With the threat of them going after civilians, the team would have to make a stand, and soon. His mind was already swirling with possibilities, what their armaments were, how to draw the enemy to them, who would do what and when...  
  
But in the back of his mind, behind all the turmoil and anger and plans and questions, one thought kept coming back, loud and clear.  
  
Face had diverted the enemy from them. Deliberately.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock and Frankie stood by the van, a shovel and pickaxe leaning against the side. Hannibal hadn't yet decided if they should bury Leandro, or leave him in the jeep when they drove it off into the desert. Frankie thought the latter idea was bizarre, but Murdock was patiently explaining that if they left him in the jeep, at least temporarily, it would serve two purposes - a more realistic decoy for Mick's people, plus a bit of psychological warfare. When it was over, the body would be taken care of, by one side or the other. Then again, Hannibal might decide he wanted no trace of Leandro found, since another body could serve as fuel for the vengeance fire. So Murdock and Frankie waited.  
  
BA hadn't the luxury of time. The van had to be ready to go when the team was, and, depending on how their first volley went, it may have to keep going for quite some time. They were lucky in some respects; they had some extra gas now, siphoned from the jeep, and more armaments, thanks to Leandro's stash. BA paused for a moment, thinking about the dead man. He hadn't liked him, and he definitely didn't like what he'd tried to do. But that didn't mean he was glad the guy was dead. No one should've died; that was why they'd left the way they had. BA shook his head, regretfully. Hopefully, Leandro would be the last casualty. If Hannibal could come up with a plan to deal with cold-blooded killers, that is. BA moved back to the van's engine. That, at least, could be understood.  
  
Hannibal was with Kurt and Daryl. He was going over the details of what he had planned so far with them. He knew he could simplify things for his guys, but these two didn't know how Hannibal's plans worked - or how to deal with the little glitches that might happen. He wanted them to be thoroughly prepared so they would work in sync with the others. Every now and then, he would glance over at the far side of their little encampment, where Face sat with Maggie. Not too close, but at least he wasn't constantly moving away from her. In fact, he seemed to be ignoring her completely.  
  
Hannibal had made one attempt to talk to him, unsuccessfully. He had thought, by expressing his gratitude for the diversion, it might break down the barriers even further. To his frustration, the small in-roads he'd made yesterday had closed up once again; Face wanted nothing to do with him. As with Maggie, he ignored Hannibal's overtures, pointedly. He seemed totally engrossed in his own thoughts, whatever the hell they were.  
  
With input from both Daryl and Kurt, Hannibal's plan was getting the final tweaks. They would start getting ready to put it into action shortly. Hannibal glanced up at the sun; it was getting low, and the lower it got, without actually setting, the better for them. Mick's people would be looking directly into the sun as they approached.  
  
Hannibal straightened his shoulders. The planning was over. Time to get set up. He turned to give Murdock and Frankie their orders when the first shots rang out.  
  
From the far side of the camp.  
  
*****  
  
He had shut out the woman's prattle the moment she started. Why would he care about her concerns? He knew she was only worried that he would somehow delay or prevent their getting out of here safely. As if he didn't want to get away from this hell hole. He'd eyed the jeep, knowing even as he did that Smith would have his own plans for it. Well, he would keep the option open. There were always ways around Smith's plans. Always.  
  
In the meantime, he had work to do. He would have to get rid of the woman first, but that shouldn't be a problem. She had guts, but not enough. She would back down. He glanced over at the others; good, they were all occupied. Enough wasted time.  
  
He stood abruptly and headed out of camp. The woman, startled, looked quickly over toward Smith, but then followed him. As expected. She would rather stay with him, alone, than chance losing sight of him while getting Smith's attention. Such dedication...  
  
He waited until they were out of sight of the camp before he pulled the Beretta. He turned, pointing it directly at her. Smiled to himself at the look on her face. Keeping the gun aimed at her head, he slowly backed away. When he was sure she wouldn't follow, he dropped his arm and strode rapidly away. To Leandro.  
  
The body had been covered with a blanket, in an attempt to keep the vultures away. It was working so far, although they were circling high above. The blanket did not, however, keep the flies and ants away. What he was about to do would certainly not help that situation, but it would accomplish the long-range goal, so any other considerations were insignificant. Tossing the blanket to one side, he looked thoughtfully at the body, confirming his plan. Carefully aiming the Beretta, he blew the back of Leandro's head off in three quick shots. He didn't have to turn the body over to know the face had also been obliterated. Four more shots to the torso completed that part of his task.  
  
He pulled his wallet and emptied it of money. He left the rest. Quickly, he exchanged it with Leandro's, and then proceeded to pull all of the man's rings and other possessions from the body and clothing. Last, he drew the crucifix from around the bloody neck. His own watch went on the body's wrist. He stood, contemplating his work.  
  
"What the hell did you do?!"  
  
Ah, the voice of outrage coming from Fearless Leader. He turned, staring stone-faced at the horrified group. Calmly, he stepped past them, dropping Leandro's personal belongings, battered and blood soaked, at Smith's feet. His voice was hoarse, but steady, calm.  
  
"Face is dead. We can leave now."


	72. Chapter 72

The body had been moved to the side of the road. A short note distastefully placed in the folds of the man's shirt.  
  
"La caccia è sopra adesso. Mio zio è vendicato." The hunt is over. My uncle is avenged.  
  
Hopefully, between the note and the ravaged body, the deceit would be accepted. Leandro and his jeep would have simply disappeared in the harsh countryside, not an unusual occurrence. The sons would not miss him. He was, in the end, and despite his self-deceptions, not that important.  
  
The Colonel drove the jeep, his lieutenant beside him. The others hadn't been happy with the decision; now was not the time to put their leader in jeopardy. But they had been given that look, and, the sergeant's rumblings notwithstanding, they had silently climbed into the van and followed.  
  
The Lieutenant's thoughts on the matter were not clear. At the Colonel's announcement of the traveling arrangements, he had looked up sharply, eyes narrowing for a moment before a hint of a smile had shown. He didn't speak now, and hadn't again, only sauntered down the road to the jeep and climbed in, settling himself as comfortably as possible in the passenger's seat. He stared off into the distance, never looking at the Colonel, as they drove away.  
  
Mile after mile, the two men sat in silence. The sun, just to the left of the road, sank slowly toward its destination. Long after darkness had fallen, they still drove. They eventually topped a steep rise and the Colonel slowed to a stop. The van, its driver recognizing the need still for discretion, rolled to a stop some distance behind. Close enough, yet not too close.  
  
Ahead of the jeep, the full moon illuminated a struggling quilt of farmland, an isolated house with its outbuildings in the distance. The Colonel looked back at the van once, and drove off the road into the near field. Turning off the engine, he climbed stiffly out. After a close look around him, he turned and contemplated the Lieutenant. His face masked by the darkness, the Lieutenant sat for another moment before he, too, stepped out of the jeep. The two men, by unspoken accord, walked silently further into the field. The occupants of the van stood beside it, watchful, as the two disappeared into the darkness.  
  
They walked, slowly, for perhaps two minutes. The Colonel stopped, pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Offered one to the Lieutenant, who, after a second's hesitation, took it. Another hesitation before accepting a light from the Colonel. They stood, smoke drifting lightly around them.  
  
"Hannibal Barca was famous for taking his elephants over the Alps." The Colonel's voice was soft, reflective. "No one seems to know, or care, that he lost most of the elephants on that trip. Along with a great many men."  
  
The Lieutenant looked at the Colonel, merely a silhouette in the moon's light.  
  
"The general had, in Rome, land of his enemies, a student of his military strategies. An outstanding student. Scipio was his name. In 202 BC, the two men finally met in head to head battle. Both were masters of deception, an unheard of tactic back then. Both took great pains, setting up their lines for the battle. It was, perhaps, the greatest challenge either of them had faced." The Colonel took another puff from his cigar, stared up at the stars.  
  
"And yet, for all their brilliance, it was a fluke that decided the eventual outcome of that battle. Hannibal's elephants, which he planned to use to literally crush the enemy, were frightened by the trumpets of Scipio's army. They stampeded. Unfortunately, they stampeded over Hannibal's own troops. In the ensuing confusion, Scipio took advantage and annihilated Hannibal's army.  
  
"Hannibal was over-confident. Depended too much on his elephants. Scipio, on the other hand, while becoming a hero of the Roman empire, didn't realize the fickle nature of Rome. He died some years later, accusations of bribery and corruption clouding his name. Hannibal died a year or two after that, in exile. Committed suicide rather than be taken by encroaching Roman troops."  
  
Again, silence surrounded them. They stood, a few feet apart, calmly smoking, looking over the farm fields. Finally, the Colonel spoke again, his voice still reflective, but with just a hint of wistfulness.  
  
"Can you imagine what would have happened, what could have happened, if those two had worked together? Two of the world's most brilliant military strategists?" He chuckled, softly. "Rome wouldn't have had a chance."  
  
The Lieutenant allowed himself an answering chuckle.  
  
"Hannibal made mistakes. Maybe let his reputation inflate his ego too much. Made him think he knew the solution to every problem. He and Scipio actually held a parlay before the battle, but the two men couldn't come to terms. Who knows what would have happened if they had." He turned, looking directly at the Lieutenant. "Maybe Hannibal underestimated Scipio. Maybe Scipio couldn't see beyond Hannibal as the enemy. I don't know. But mistakes were made. Opportunities lost."  
  
The question, when it came, had no bitterness or sarcasm in it. "What do you want from me, Colonel?"  
  
"It's more what I don't want. I don't want you to become another Randy. Filled with bitterness and hate. Cynical. I'm sorry he's gone, more sorry than you might realize. I don't think he was totally lost; I think he just needed a nudge in the right direction." The Colonel shrugged, ruefully. "Okay, maybe a shove. But I think he would have taken the chance, if he'd had time.  
  
"I guess that's what I want from you now. You know the man I want you to meet, and you know why. Take the chance. That's all. After that, you make your own choice. Stay with the team, or go your own way. I won't interfere again; none of us will."  
  
Again, there was no bitterness or sarcasm. "You think he'll come back, don't you? You think you'll have Face again, all safe and sound - and compliant."  
  
The Colonel shook his head, another short chuckle. "He was never compliant, but, yes, I hope he comes back. If not, I'd at least like to know that I won't be letting a cold-blooded killer loose on the world. What you did to Mick, and Leandro..."  
  
"I didn't kill Leandro."  
  
"You know what I mean." For the first time, anger came out in the Colonel's voice. He took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down. "You're a better man than that, Lieutenant. If you come out of this realizing nothing more than that, I'll be satisfied."  
  
"You're sure of that?"  
  
"I won't let the elephants stampede. That much I'm sure of."  
  
The Lieutenant sighed, threw the cigar butt in the dirt, fiercely ground it out. Whatever he had expected, this wasn't it. He stared up at the night sky. He remained standing there, even as the Colonel turned and began walking back.  
  
After a few moments, he turned, saw the Colonel approaching the van, speaking to the others. Watched as they all climbed into the van. He expected it to drive off, but it remained on the side of the road, waiting.  
  
He looked away, shaking his head, exasperated. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Nothing made any sense. The Colonel should have been angry, disgusted. Dropped him off along the road with the jeep to go his own way, get out of his sight, keep him from damaging his team further. Or beaten the shit out of him. Hell, shot him.  
  
Anything but this.  
  
He turned and started walking back to the road. Hesitated at the jeep, keys still in the ignition. He could get in, drive away, and know the Colonel wouldn't try to stop him. He would be free of them, free of the ghosts, free to do whatever he wanted.  
  
But then, he'd always been free to do that. He could've left at any time. He could've let Mick have Daryl. He could've let Stockwell come for the Colonel and the others. He didn't owe these people anything. He could have just walked away.  
  
So why hadn't he?  
  
He slammed the side of his fist into the jeep. Damn him! He shook his head, glared at the fields. Damn him. He stalked up to the van and climbed into the open side door. He settled back against the cushion without a word, closed his eyes. The Colonel nodded at the driver as the door slid shut.  
  
The van moved down the road, leaving the jeep in the field.


	73. Chapter 73

"So it was all a ruse..."  
  
"Yes, sir. Unfortunately."  
  
"Hmm. And our contact?"  
  
"Apparently he was also taken in, sir. Of course, that's now moot."  
  
"Yes..." The chair protested slightly as it swiveled to face the bank of windows overlooking the city. "And the killer...?"  
  
"Presumed to be the Lieutenant. There was no one else left there who would have."  
  
"Hmm. I knew he would surprise us. I must admit, I didn't expect a surprise of such...significance."  
  
"No, sir. I don't believe any of us did, sir."  
  
"Especially Mr. Marucchi. Well, dance with the devil..."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Marucchi's people have dealt with it?"  
  
"Apparently so, sir. They told our people the killer is dead, but we're still waiting for confirmation."  
  
"So, it would appear our troubles are indeed over, correct, Carla? We have only to retrieve our errant personnel and things will be back to normal. At least, as normal as they get with Smith and his men."  
  
"It would appear so, General."  
  
"Hmm." Stockwell looked down at the reports from Mexico, laying unopened on his desk. He stared at the folder for a long moment before returning his gaze to Carla. "You accept this report, Carla?"  
  
Carla hesitated for only a moment. "No, sir, I don't."  
  
"And why is that, Carla?"  
  
"I don't believe Colonel Smith would let anyone get to Peck. Especially with two Ables to assist the team. It just wouldn't happen."  
  
Stockwell chuckled, mirthlessly. "I agree, Carla. I very much agree. Things just don't work that way." He swept the folder into the drawer, shut it firmly. "You know what to do."  
  
"Yes, General. Already in progress."  
  
"Good. Let me know as soon as you hear anything, no matter how insignificant it appears."  
  
"Yes, sir." Carla turned and headed for the door.  
  
"Oh, and Carla..."  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Let's not be making any independent moves. Not any more."  
  
Carla pursed her lips, holding back the retort. Forced a submissive tone to her voice. "Absolutely not, General. Nothing happens without your approval."  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Stockwell nodded his dismissal and watched as his assistant closed the door behind her. Sighing, he reached for the telephone, using his private line.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock had been surprised when he'd first seen the place. Somehow, when Hannibal had said Father Magill would be waiting for them at "the retreat", he'd figured it would be some cabin out in the mountains some place. Instead, he sat in an upstairs window of a fourplex, staring across the street at a rather nondescript concrete building. Five stories high, almost devoid of windows, and completely surrounded, not by flora and fauna, but by more steel and concrete.  
  
Hardly a place he would choose to get closer to God.  
  
Murdock glanced back into the room where they were waiting. BA sat on the couch, fiddling with the remote control. So far, it turned the television on and off and that was about it. Which really didn't matter much, since the set only seemed capable of receiving one station, anyway. Kurt and Daryl sat at the linoleum covered table, playing a lack-luster game of poker with Frankie. Hannibal sat in the only comfortable chair in the place, calmly reading the paper. Maggie was on her way back home; she had been reluctant to leave, but relieved at the same. He didn't blame her.  
  
Murdock's look traveled to one of the three bedroom doors, the one which "Face" had taken over as his domain. No one had even thought about entering without an invitation, and no one, thus far, had received one. Nor had the Lieutenant shown his face in the outer rooms. Murdock was somewhat concerned about that, but Hannibal seemed to take it in stride.  
  
"We've only been here one day, Murdock. He's not going anywhere, and, when it's time, he'll come out. He just needs his privacy."  
  
Privacy. Okay. Like he hadn't held himself aloof from all of them the entire trip up here. He'd agreed to meet with the priest, but that seemed to be the only compromise he was willing to make. He was no more civil to the rest of them after he and Hannibal had had their little tête-à-tête than he had been before. In fact, he'd almost been worse.  
  
He looked back out the window; nothing had changed. There was little or no traffic on the street below; no wonder, since it was the last of three blocks on the dead end street. That bothered everyone, even Hannibal. If Stockwell's people were to show up, there was really no place for the team to go, except over the rooftops. Not a route any of them liked, although it was certainly do-able, if they had to. Then again, it was equally impossible for Stockwell to bring in his people in any kind of numbers without their having more than ample warning. Not the best of trade-off's, but better than nothing.  
  
Murdock suddenly roused himself. A car was drifting down the street. Eventually it pulled to a stop in front of the building across the street, and Murdock watched as a man, dressed in civvies, stepped out, pulling a small valise out of the back seat. He stood on the street while the car made a three corner turnaround and ambled back down the street. The man stood for another moment, looking cautiously around him, before turning to the door and knocking. A dour looking nun opened the door, suddenly smiling at the visitor. Murdock could clearly hear the conversation drift up from the canyon-like street.  
  
"Ah, Father Magill, welcome. We've been expecting you..."  
  
The two were still in genial conversation when a man stepped out of the building next to the retreat. He sauntered past, nodding his head at the two in passing. He continued up the street, stopping only when the priest had actually entered the building and the door closed firmly behind him. He pulled something from his pocket, but before Murdock could tell what he was doing, yet another man came around the corner. The new guy stopped, cigarette in hand; apparently needed a light. A moment's interaction, and the two men turned and walked, close together, back around the corner.  
  
Murdock frowned. Was Stockwell that sure of himself, to let his men be so obvious?  
  
"Hannibal..."  
  
*****  
  
It had taken almost three days to reach LA proper. Three days of hell over rough roads and barely working air conditioning. His shoulder was still stiff; at times it felt as if the muscles were shrinking into tiny knots of steel. No amount of stretching or shifting could get rid of it.  
  
But that he could deal with.  
  
It had been the closing them out that had really taken its toll. He knew, from the tentative conversations that both Murdock and Santana had started, that everyone was expecting him to come out of his 'shell', now that he and Smith had reached their understanding. No way. He'd speak when he had to, when he needed to. So far, he'd seen no reason to.  
  
Nor had he seen any reason to suddenly trust them. Smith, only as far as the promise regarding the priest. He didn't even know why he believed that. He didn't know why he was still with these people.  
  
There was something...  
  
He pushed that aside. Again. That...confusion...had been irritating him practically since he'd climbed back into that damn van. Made it hard to think. Gave him a headache. And it served no purpose at all. He knew that any memories he had of these people were lies. He believed Smith's promise only because Smith had acknowledged his errors. It took a man of honor to do that.  
  
That was all. Nothing more.  
  
He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He glanced at the door to the bedroom, suspiciously. So far no one had disturbed him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before that priest showed up. And then he'd be expected to keep his part of the bargain.  
  
He looked out of the window, to the building across the street. A sterile building. Total functionality, devoid of any character, warmth. A sudden shudder swept through him. He felt claustrophobic, just looking at the place he would be meeting with Magill. He did not want to go into that building.  
  
He stepped back from the window. Shit. He was actually sweating. What the hell was the matter with him? This was ridiculous. It was just a building. An ugly, crappy building, but just that. A building. And this guy he was going to meet was just a priest. A man in a collar.  
  
No big deal.  
  
He stood still for several minutes, breathing slow, deep. Stupid to get all uptight like this. He was stronger than that. Much stronger. He had nothing to fear from this priest. He was only keeping his word. Taking the chance. Spend a few minutes talking to this guy and then he was free. Free.  
  
To decide who he really was.  
  
He closed his eyes, concentrated on his heart beat, his breathing. He felt himself calming, relaxing. Good. No more of that shit. He was just tired from that hell ride. That's all. Just tired. He made himself comfortable on the bed. He'd take a nap, get some sleep, be good as new.  
  
That's all he needed. A little more sleep. A lot more sleep.  
  
He heard a car door slam down in the street. Immediately he was back at the window, nap forgotten. He stood to the side, out of sight. Looked down at the man getting his bag from the car. Watched as he looked around, stepped up to the door, knocked. Heard the nun's voice, not the words. Paid no attention to the nun, or the man walking by them, or anything else on the street.  
  
Saw no one except the priest.  
  
The priest.  
  
Magill.  
  
Father Magill.  
  
He suddenly felt very, very cold.


	74. Chapter 74

"I have everything ready for you, Father Magill. We've set aside the first floor rooms on the far side of the courtyard for you and your friend. Other than the common areas, you won't be disturbed."  
  
"I thank you, Sister. I only hope he'll be staying."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't worry, Father. I've known you long enough to know you can talk nearly anyone into nearly anything."  
  
Father Magill chuckled at that. It was probably true; he'd always been told he had the gift of the blarney. He smiled ruefully. Thanking the sister, he entered his room and almost immediately sobered. Would Templeton stay? Would he even show up? Colonel Smith had said he was with the Team, and had agreed to see the priest, but would it be enough? Even if Templeton stayed, would it work?  
  
Slowly removing his few possessions from the valise, Magill thought about the many, many times he had verbally jousted with his young, silver-tongued charge. No matter what Templeton had done, he would find some way of explaining how perfectly reasonable it had been for him to do it. And no matter how grievous the sin, Magill had secretly enjoyed outwitting (sometimes) the convoluted logic the youngster had employed.  
  
But this was no puckish child he would be confronting. It would not be the young man he'd seen off to war, nor the man on the run who still managed, regardless of the risk, to stop in for a visit with his old mentor. This would be a perfect stranger, someone who would not be defending a childish misdeed, but fighting for the life he wished he had had, felt he should have had. The life he remembered, not the one he had lived. And, as Colonel Smith had warned him, a man who could be dangerous if pushed too hard, too far.  
  
And Father Magill would have to push him too hard and too far, if this was to work at all.  
  
*****  
  
"You're sure they were Ables, not just civilians?" Hannibal chewed lightly on his cigar, frowning slightly at Murdock.  
  
"No, they weren't civilians, Hannibal. Things were just a little too casual for that, if you know what I mean."  
  
Hannibal nodded, looked over at the table where the three men were still playing cards.  
  
"Kurt, Daryl. I need you two to check something out." He quickly told them what Murdock had seen on the street below. "We need to know who they are, what they were doing. I'm not sending Face in there if Stockwell's onto Father Magill."  
  
Nodding, the two men quickly headed out the door and down the stairs. Murdock returned to his watch by the window. A few minutes later, he saw the two former Ables. Kurt casually moved around the corner, taking the path the other two men had used. Daryl, stepping out seconds later, headed for the building the first man had come from. Murdock didn't like them separating like that, but recognized they had their own way of working. Kurt was already out of sight; Murdock kept his eye on Daryl, who, after a quick glance up and down the street, made a couple quick movements at the doorway and stepped inside.  
  
All Murdock could do now was wait.  
  
*****  
  
Daryl closed the door quickly behind him, looking around the small foyer. Apparently this was a security apartment building; he checked the names on the mail boxes. None of the names held any significance; two were blank. A second door, also locked, led him into a long hallway, two solid doors on each side. A third door, with a sign noting an alarm would be set off if opened, stood next to a small elevator at the end of the hall. Deciding to check out the un-named apartments first, he punched the button for the fourth floor, waiting impatiently for the slow-moving car to reach its destination.  
  
Ten minutes later he emerged from the empty apartment and headed up to the top floor. Listening at the door to the other "empty" apartment, he could just barely hear movement from inside. He stepped back, staring at the door handle. He had no idea how many people might be in there. Stockwell's teams usually worked with at least four people. That meant if he went in there, he'd be dealing with at least two, maybe more. If the idea was not to alert Stockwell to their presence, those weren't good odds. He took another step back toward the elevator. He didn't need to see what was in there to know who they were. He'd let Smith know, and they'd go from there.  
  
He was just reaching for the elevator button when the doors slid open, revealing two men inside. Two very serious men. One smiled at him, not nicely.  
  
"Welcome to the party."  
  
*****  
  
He watched Kurt go around the corner, then Daryl break into the building across the street. They were distractions, distractions he badly needed. He didn't know what they were doing, didn't care. They gave him something to do besides think about that priest. That damn priest.  
  
Why the hell had he ever agreed to meet with him? He should have known better. Should have known there was a catch. He'd thought he could handle this; Magill's name was familiar to him only because of what he'd been told before. That's all it had been, a name, like all the others they'd thrown at him. He hadn't known what he looked like.  
  
But he remembered that face, the minute the priest had turned around. He remembered it!  
  
And that wasn't possible. Magill belonged to a past Stockwell had made up. A past that didn't exist. So Magill didn't exist. He couldn't. And yet...he knew that face. And there was only one way that could be.  
  
The experiment.  
  
Magill had to have been involved in it. Somehow. Some way. Magill was one of those responsible for this whole mess. One of those who had screwed up his mind, destroyed his memories.  
  
Ruined his life.  
  
He turned again to the window, staring at the building directly across from theirs. Stared at the door Magill had gone through. He was in there now. Waiting.  
  
With who else?  
  
*****  
  
"No sign of them? Either of them?"  
  
Hannibal stood a few feet from Murdock, who was still watching at the window.  
  
"Nothing, Colonel. I don't like it. It shouldn't...wait. There's Kurt." Murdock straightened, moving slightly back from the glass. "Doesn't seem in too big a hurry, but that doesn't mean anything." He looked anxiously at the building next to the retreat. Still no sign of Daryl.  
  
"All right. Give Daryl a few more minutes, then we go in after him." Hannibal headed for the door, more anxious than he wanted to appear. There were too many things going on, too many things that could go wrong. Normally, he thrived on situations like this. This time, there was too much at stake. Too many things that had already gotten fucked up. He pulled open the door and Kurt almost fell in.  
  
"Geez, Colonel, don't do that!" Kurt recovered himself, shaking his head as he stepped further into the room. He looked at the three faces staring at him, waiting. "Well, nothing to report, guys. No one around. But if they were Stockwell's, they wouldn't have anything to report, other than Father Magill is attending a retreat. So we're okay, so far, anyway."  
  
Hannibal looked at Kurt. Something was off there. Kurt's words were casual, but there was a glitter in his eyes and a slight flush on his face. The man knew something, and it was important.  
  
"You didn't see any sign of them? Not many places they could disappear to, not in a residential neighborhood."  
  
"Must have had a car. There was no one around," Kurt repeated, looking steadily at Hannibal. Whatever it was, he had no intention of spilling it to any of them. Hannibal sighed. Another damn complication.  
  
"What about Daryl?"  
  
"He was going to check out the building the one guy came from. Don't worry; he can handle himself, Colonel. If he finds anything, he'll report back first."  
  
As if on cue, footsteps were heard in the hallway. Everyone tensed, reaching for weapons, until Daryl strode in. He looked at the group, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Find anything, Daryl? At all?" The irony in Hannibal's voice wasn't missed, but Kurt and Daryl were the only ones that didn't seem mystified by it.  
  
"Nothing, Colonel. If these guys were Stockwell's, they were probably only using the building as a lookout, not as a base."  
  
"You're sure, are you?"  
  
Daryl looked straight into Hannibal's eyes.  
  
"Dead sure, Colonel."  
  
*****  
  
It was late. He'd been leaning back on the bed, staring out of the window, seeing only the very top of the building across the street. Watching as the sun crept into afternoon, faded into evening, fell into night. He hadn't moved from the bed in all that time. Once, someone had knocked on the door, lightly, hesitantly almost. He knew what they wanted. He'd ignored the knock and it hadn't been repeated. They knew he was in here; there was no way out of this room except through them. There was no place to go, except the building across the street.  
  
He would have to deal with him. He had no choice.  
  
He couldn't let them know what he knew. What he remembered. It was his only chance. He sighed, bitterly, disgustedly.  
  
He'd fallen into their trap like a blind man.  
  
*****  
  
"He called, Hannibal. He said, whenever we're ready. He'll be waiting. Him, or the sister."  
  
"Thanks, BA." Hannibal moved to Face's door, took a deep breath, knocked lightly. When there was no answer, he raised his hand to knock again, hesitated, let his hand drop. Face knew what he wanted. He'd come out when he was ready.  
  
Hannibal settled back into his chair, puffing on his cigar. Murdock sat at the table, with Daryl and Kurt and the unending card game. Frankie watched the street, from the small slit between shade and window frame. BA leaned against the counter in the kitchenette, eating a late supper. He'd waited for the priest's call in the van, parked in a ramp several blocks away, since Father Magill had arrived. Now his job was done.  
  
Everyone's job was done. Save one.  
  
*****  
  
It was nearly pitch black out now, only a faint light from the old street light. He stared out at the building across the street. It was dark, too. Nearly. One window, a small one near the door, showed a light. Nothing else.  
  
He turned, swayed slightly. He hadn't eaten all day, hadn't slept in longer than that. It didn't matter. He wouldn't need his body for that much, anyway. It was his mind that had to work now. It had to be sharper and quicker than ever before. The enemy he would be facing now wouldn't resort to beatings or drugs or threats; he would do as he'd done before, use persuasion and cunning and convoluted logic. But this time it wouldn't work. This time, he was ready for it. His mind was ready.  
  
He stepped out of the bedroom. Stared at Smith. The "man of honor". He wouldn't make that mistake again, either.  
  
"Shall we go?"


	75. Chapter 75

"Nothing?"  
  
"No, sir. Everything's quiet. It could be just what it seems..."  
  
Silence on the other end of the line. He waited it out.  
  
"Very well, Able 40. Continue the surveillance. Will you need any more assistance?"  
  
"No, sir, three of us should be more than adequate. I'll let you know if there is anything."  
  
The line went dead without a response.  
  
He hung up the phone, moved back to the chair, placed back from the window. A tripod with a small telescope sat in front of the chair, facing the building across the street. He had been watching the building, the window, for several hours. So far, there had been only occasional movement. Nothing significant. That would come.  
  
To his right was a table covered with electronics. The Ables had been industrious and thorough. There was not a room allotted to the priest that he could not listen in on. So far there had been very little, a brief conversation with the nun, mumbled prayers. A separate recording device sat on the end of the table, taping any conversations placed on what was apparently the retreat's only telephone. There had only been one phone call, a few hours earlier.  
  
A light suddenly appeared through the window he was watching. The door to the room had been opened. He watched the silhouette move into the inner apartment, then the light abruptly disappeared. Moments later, a red light on a monitor began blinking. He watched it out of the corner of his eye, while keeping the front door of the building across the street centered in the eyepiece of the telescope. The first man stepped cautiously out of that door, looking up and down the street. The man moved down the street, toward the intersection. Moments later, a second man appeared.  
  
Quietly, he reached over and flipped on a second monitor. The door to the retreat appeared, a light in the small window next to it.  
  
Soon. Very soon.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal looked at Face for a moment before nodding at the others. The plan was already in place, and each man knew where to go, what to do, as they filed silently out of the door. Perhaps they were being too paranoid about Stockwell; perhaps not. Hannibal would effectively be leaving his lieutenant alone with an elderly priest and a couple of nuns; he was taking no chances.  
  
Nevertheless, something was off. Something about Face. The way he'd looked at Hannibal when he came out of the bedroom. Something had changed since they'd arrived.  
  
The others had gone now, and Hannibal waited for the all clear before he and Face moved out of the apartment. Anything, anything at all that didn't look right, and they'd wait until the next night. Or the next. Hannibal wanted Face to feel safe. If he didn't, he wouldn't give this a real chance. He may not, anyway. He may go in, talk to the priest and then walk away. Hannibal hoped that wouldn't happen. He hoped Father Magill would be able to convince him to stay, to give it a shot. But he also knew that there was a very small window of opportunity. Magill had to have something for Face in those first few minutes that would make him want to stay. Out of curiosity, anger - maybe even a triggered memory. But he had to have something to grab Face and hold him.  
  
Hannibal's radio crackled. All clear. He looked over at Face again. Whatever he'd been thinking when he came out of the bedroom, his expression was calm now.  
  
"It's clear. Ready?"  
  
"Yeah. Let's get this over with."  
  
Minutes later, Hannibal stood just outside the door, looking, listening. All quiet. He nodded back at Face and stepped across the street. He didn't look, but could hear his lieutenant close behind him, no hesitation in his step. In a moment they were at the door to the retreat. Before Hannibal could ring the bell, the door opened. Father Magill glanced at him, then peered at the man behind him.  
  
"Welcome, Templeton. It's been a long time."  
  
Face didn't say a word in acknowledgement, just stepped past Hannibal into the doorway. He turned then, looking back at him.  
  
"My choice, my decision. Right? Whatever happens, no more interference from you."  
  
Hannibal kept his voice neutral, hard as it was. "You have my word."  
  
Once again, there was that flicker of something, and then it was gone. Face didn't say another word to either man, merely stepped further into the hallway and stopped, looking quickly at the layout, waiting. Father Magill looked at Hannibal, nodding, a small, sympathetic smile on his lips. Hannibal nodded in return, stepped back, and watched as the door slowly but firmly closed.  
  
It was out of his hands now.  
  
*****  
  
Father Magill turned from the door and stood for a moment, regarding the man in front of him. He looked the same, mainly, as he always had. Thinner, perhaps, than the last time they'd met. It wasn't until Templeton turned and looked back at him that Magill noticed the difference. Instead of warmth, humor and affection, there was coldness, suspicion and distrust. And then the priest almost stepped back as his former charge let him see, for a moment only, the core of his emotions toward him.  
  
Pure. Unadulterated. Hatred.  
  
And then it was gone. The eyes died, and the face was calm. Neutral. It took Magill a moment to collect himself. He had no idea why Templeton would look at him that way. As far as he knew, as far as the Colonel knew, Templeton had no recollection of him, had no reason to feel anything toward him. Surely he couldn't hate him because of this meeting. Templeton had, after all, agreed to it, and knew he was able to leave whenever he chose.  
  
Forcing what he hoped was a non-threatening smile on his face, Magill nodded toward the end of the hall.  
  
"Our rooms are down this way, Templeton. If you decide to stay for a while," he hastened to add.  
  
A frown of distaste appeared. "I suppose you're going to insist on calling me Templeton."  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm just used to calling you that. I have for many years now." He may have to be careful, but he was just as determined to be honest. "Is there another name you would prefer?"  
  
Father Magill felt the first glimmer of hope then, as the face looking at him went totally blank.  
  
*****  
  
He sat in the room, looking at the ceiling. Beside him on the bed was the box Magill had given him when they reached their rooms. He hadn't looked at it yet; hadn't even decided if he would. Hadn't even thought about it, really. Magill had just given it to him and said they would talk in the morning, when they were both "rested".  
  
"Rested." Like he would get any sleep tonight.  
  
He started counting the squares of tile on the ceiling. Somewhere in the middle he lost count, started over again, patiently. Randy had told him to do that when he needed to get his mind back in focus. No matter how many times he had to restart, he would count until he'd gotten all the way across the ceiling, at the same pace. No rushing, no cutting corners. It wasn't as easy as it seemed; after a while, his eyes got tired of focusing on the next tile, and would skitter here and there. It took patience and will power to stay on target. But it worked, every time.  
  
And he needed to get things back on track.  
  
Needed to remember what his plan was. His plan to stop Magill. Stop him from doing to anyone else what he'd done to him. To Randy. Stop him from destroying anyone else.  
  
But he couldn't remember his plan. He'd thought it out so carefully. Get the answers to his questions, and then neutralize the bastard. He'd had it all right there, in his head. How to do it without raising the guy's suspicions, without having Stockwell's army called down on his head. To make it all seem natural. The guy was old, after all. There would be nothing suspicious if he died of a heart attack. And he'd had it all figured out, how to do that.  
  
But he couldn't remember it now. It was there, in his head, but he couldn't remember the details.  
  
All he could think about was that question.  
  
He frowned, concentrated on the ceiling tiles again. He'd lost count a long time ago, had just sat there staring at the ceiling. Not good. Concentrate. Focus. Forget the damn...it didn't matter.  
  
One...two...three...four...five...  
  
Didn't matter...he hadn't even thought about it...  
  
Six...seven...eight...nine...  
  
Until now...  
  
Ten...eleven...twelve...thirteen...  
  
Couldn't leave any marks, he knew that...  
  
Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen...  
  
He should know it...everyone knew it...  
  
Nineteen...twenty-one...  
  
It was just the first step...starting all over again...Magill knew that...  
  
Twenty-five...  
  
Magill was just trying to catch him off guard...  
  
Twenty-two...  
  
It was his fault. That false priest...  
  
Twenty-one...  
  
He knew....he just couldn't find it yet...he just had to think...  
  
Twenty-three...twenty-four...  
  
Damn...he knew his name...he did...  
  
Thirty...  
  
*****  
  
He listened for some time. The counting was becoming more and more aimless. That wasn't good.  
  
That wasn't good at all...


	76. Chapter 76

He opened his eyes, slowly letting them adjust to the dim light from the table lamp. He didn't think he'd been sleeping. Dozing, now and then, but not sleeping. He couldn't let himself sleep. Not here. Not now.  
  
He looked around the room. Nothing had changed. The chair was still shoved up under the door knob. It wouldn't stop anyone determined to come in, but it would delay them for a minute. That's all he would need.  
  
He stood, shaking his shoulders. Moved to the high window, the sill at chest level. Small, but not small enough. Ground floor. Easy. Either Magill had gotten sloppy, or was confident to the point of arrogance. He didn't really believe either.  
  
Outside the window was a narrow alley, congested with dumpsters, cars, debris. He stood perfectly still, watching from the side. There. Stockwell's, or Smith's, he couldn't tell. But he was being watched. As far as he could tell, only the one, though.  
  
Nothing to worry about.  
  
He stepped back into the room. Looked again at the box, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. He still hadn't looked inside. He imagined it was full of forged documents. More of the same type of crap Smith had shoved at him before. Meaningless.  
  
He sat on the bed. Stared at the wall. Looked down at the box.  
  
Meaningless.  
  
He leaned over, looking closer. Sealed with several strips of tape, dried out and stiff now. Dusty. Looked like it hadn't been touched in a long time. He leaned closer, almost bending double. It smelled musty.  
  
Straightening, he shook his head. More tricks. Magill could've gotten any old box and shoved a bunch of shit in it.  
  
Meaningless.  
  
He stood, paced around the room for a few minutes. Stopped. Looked back at the box. He needed to know what Magill's game plan was. What his strategy was.  
  
The box would be a start.  
  
He sat on the bed, pulling the box up next to him. Pulling his pocketknife, he hesitated a moment, then resolutely slit the tape. He pulled open the cover and wiped his hands on the blanket. Peered inside. The first thing he saw were certificates of some kind.  
  
More forgeries.  
  
Did they really think he would be fooled by this? Hadn't they learned anything?  
  
He reached in, pulled out the papers, glancing at them quickly before dropping them on the bed. All looking perfectly legit, showing his transfer of custody to the orphanage, various medical records, report cards...all the things one would expect to find. Old, discolored. Musty.  
  
He had to admit, they were very good. Magill had gone to a lot of trouble to make them look just right.  
  
He dropped the stack of papers on the floor. Opened the cover a bit further. There were several small boxes, almost like jeweler's cases. He looked inside a couple of them. Small medals - spelling contests, football, one for perfect attendance.  
  
Must have cost them a fortune to have those made up and aged like that. Well, they had a lot invested in him. Why not?  
  
He thought for a moment that was all that was in the box, and was slightly disappointed. He'd expected something more...spectacular. Something that Magill figured would throw him completely out of whack. This was just more...crap.  
  
Meaningless.  
  
Shaking his head, he picked up the smaller boxes, piled them on the papers and started to shove them into the bigger box. That's when he realized there was one more item in the box. On the bottom. Dark colored, so he hadn't seen it at first. He reached in, carefully pulled it out. Placed it on the bed beside him.  
  
Damn.  
  
An apartment flashed through his mind. Five men in dirty uniforms, smiling at him.  
  
He moved back, leaning against the headboard. Disgustedly, he realized he was sweating. And cold.  
  
Faked. All faked. It was easy enough to do. This was just more of the same. More tricks.  
  
Meaningless.  
  
He sat for a long time, staring at the cover of the photo album.  
  
*****  
  
"Still nothing?"  
  
"No, General, nothing. The other Ables have also reported in. Chicago, Bad Rock, the VA - nothing at any of them." Carla hesitated, then plunged forward. "General, the others have done nothing unusual. Mrs. Baracus and Dr. Sullivan are going about their routines. No strange fires or electrical problems at the VA. The only shift from the ordinary is LA."  
  
"Our Ables report no sightings."  
  
"Correction, General. Our 'Able' reports all quiet. We haven't spoken to the other two, only Able 40."  
  
Stockwell leaned back in his chair. He hadn't overlooked that fact, either. Carla bringing it up confirmed his intuition.  
  
"Perhaps we need outside confirmation of the situation in LA. Someone who wouldn't be...noticed. Who's available?"  
  
"I have a couple of Ables, either of whom would work out nicely, General."  
  
"All right. Pick one, get him on the way within the hour. I want a report back ASAP."  
  
*****  
  
He opened his eyes, instantly wide awake, when the first sounds came through the headphones. He couldn't figure out what the noises meant. Papers rustling, scuffling noises. Mumblings. He listened for a few minutes more, and then it got quiet again.  
  
He wished the Ables had installed surveillance cameras in the rooms, but there hadn't been time. He really needed to see what was going on. It was much more difficult to assess the situation when he hadn't any idea what papers were being looked at, what the reaction was. And he had no clue as to what the other sounds were.  
  
He stood, walked to the window, looked out on the street below. He knew where both his men were; one was pretty much out of bounds for now; the other he could get to easily. Luckily, that was the one he needed.  
  
He stepped quietly out into the hallway and down the stairs. The elevators were too noisy, too confining. Too easy to get bushwhacked. It took only a couple of minutes to reach the ground level and slip carefully out of the emergency door - the door he'd carefully disarmed on arrival.  
  
He looked carefully up and down the alley. As long as he stayed on his side, no one at the retreat would be able to see him. But there were others who might be out and about, and he wanted no chance encounters with the wrong people. He found a spot behind a dumpster, waited a moment, listening, and then gave what he hoped was a recognizable imitation of an angry tomcat. He hoped it had been loud enough, but not too loud.  
  
He was relieved to see his man glide slowly out of the shadows, crossing quickly, quietly, across the alley to his position.  
  
"Which room?"  
  
"Third from the corner. Light's been on since he arrived, but I don't know if he's awake or not."  
  
"He's awake. At least, he was a minute ago." He glanced over at the building across the alley. "Anything there?"  
  
"Not really. A few offices on the upper floors. Bottom floors are empty except for a couple apartments. Lock's an antique."  
  
"View?"  
  
"Second floor should look right through his window."  
  
"Okay. I'll keep our rooms upstairs for now, but I'll be moving the equipment over there first thing in the morning."  
  
"I'll keep it clear for you then."  
  
He nodded, and the men moved in unison back across the alleyway. Seconds later, he'd picked the lock on the basement door and was moving up to the second floor.  
  
His partner had been right. The rear apartment, deserted apparently for some time, looked down and through the window. He could see most of the room clearly. Including the figure sitting disconsolately on the bed.  
  
Not for the first time, he wondered about the wisdom of this whole scheme...  
  
*****  
  
He slowly reached over, picked up the album, pulled it onto his lap. For several minutes he waited, gathering himself. He remembered the pictures at Mrs. Baracus' apartment vividly. He knew they were phony, just as these would be. Still...  
  
This was the crux of the manipulations. That niggling doubt. Everything he had been told, shown, could have been the truth. And who was he to dispute it, really? The man with no past. No. Correction.  
  
The man with too many.  
  
He knew, well enough, that some of the things he'd been told by Smith had to be true. The lies had to be based on some facts. But which was which?  
  
No.  
  
No, he knew what were lies. Anything to do with Smith and his cronies were lies. They worked for Stockwell. And Stockwell had done this to him, to Randy. Nothing connected to Stockwell was to be trusted.  
  
Nothing.  
  
So whatever he found in this photo album would be lies.  
  
No reason to even look at it.  
  
No reason at all.  
  
He shoved the book back onto the bed. Stood and stepped back over to the window. His guard dog was still out there. He could see him, even in the dark. Could practically smell the bastard.  
  
He turned back to the room, looking everywhere except the bed. He wished he had a drink. A beer would go down so good right now. Stuffy little room. He hated it. He should just walk out. He could get away from these guys. Might have to take one or two down to do it, but he could.  
  
But that left Magill, alive and breathing. Not part of the game plan.  
  
Okay. He could go kill Magill and then leave. Just a slight delay. No big deal.  
  
His eyes fell on the album.  
  
Curiosity killed the cat. Remember that.  
  
He stepped over to the door, listening. Silence. He leaned against the door, considering his options. Glanced again at the album.  
  
It would be interesting to see how much trouble they'd gone to. He wondered idly if Magill had had anything to do with the Nam photos. Not for the first time, he thought about where Magill actually stood in the hierarchy of their plan. Leader? No, that had been Barish. Or Barish and Stockwell. So Magill had been what? Second banana? Certainly not just an underling.  
  
He sat on the bed. Ran his finger along the edge of the album.  
  
Fakes. That's all.  
  
Meaningless.  
  
Slowly, he moved his hand and let the book fall open...


	77. Chapter 77

The alarm sounded next to Father Magill's ear, and he groggily sat up, groping to shut the noise off. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, only then remembering where he was, and why. He sighed deeply, wondering what this day would bring, praying silently that he would find Templeton still in his room, that he hadn't disappeared into the night.  
  
He hadn't been at all sure he should give Templeton the box last night. He had gone back and forth for a long time, trying to decide if they should go through it together or not. He had no idea how it would affect the man he'd met in the hall. In the end, he relied on his instincts; Templeton would have wanted to look through it alone, analyzing every piece, not wanting anyone else to see his reactions. And if the contents had any positive affect at all, Templeton - his Templeton - would be waiting to talk this morning.  
  
He carefully got out of bed, his old bones protesting loudly the effects of the unfamiliar mattress. It reminded him of why he seldom went on retreat. With an apologetic look up, he made a mental note to devote more time to meditation when he returned home. He had a feeling he would need it when this was over.  
  
A few minutes later, he stood in front of Templeton's door. Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly. After what seemed a lifetime, the door swung open. A moment's hesitation, and Father Magill stepped inside.  
  
*****  
  
The private jet had landed an hour earlier, and he'd immediately been driven to a small hotel, not far from the target area. On the coffee table lie a folder with several photographs: members of the A-Team, the two rogue Ables, a priest, the three Ables on surveillance. He would not be in direct contact with any of them, a prospect he didn't like, but orders were orders. The General thought something was wrong with the surveillance team; it was his job to find out what.  
  
And then correct it.  
  
Distastefully, he thought back to the briefing Stockwell's assistant, Carla, had given him. It wasn't that he was unused to these types of jobs; he just didn't like other Ables being in the equation. Although he did have some discretion in the matter. If the General's goals could be accomplished without any bloodshed, all the better.  
  
If not...  
  
He sighed, checking his weapons. Hopefully it was just as reported - a dry hole, and the General would have to look elsewhere for his missing people.  
  
He studied the photographs one more time before leaving. He would check out the surveillance apartment first. Carefully. If there were anything amiss, that would be the first area to clean up.  
  
Casually carrying his specialized briefcase, he strolled out of the building and down the street.  
  
*****  
  
It had been just before dawn when he carried the last box of electronics across the alley and up to the new apartment. It had been hard work, not only physically but technically. He wasn't one for electronic gadgetry and he'd had to make notes as to what got re-connected where. But it was finally done.  
  
He made one last inspection of the old apartment. He didn't want to leave any indication that anyone had been there. He was still debating whether or not to let Stockwell in on the change. It wasn't really necessary; the General expected his people to do the job without having to constantly check in with him. Which made Stockwell's own incessant checking with him much more irritating. It was with a bit of perverse satisfaction that he decided to leave the General in the dark about the move. At least for a while longer.  
  
He locked the door to the apartment and hurried down the stairs to the alley. His partner was waiting, watching the alleyway carefully.  
  
"You're cutting this awfully damn close, you know. It's almost time to switch."  
  
He smiled, calmly. "Don't worry so much. Everything's in place now. You just be sure to let me know if there's any change in plans, all right?" He disappeared into the new building before the other man could reply.  
  
Shaking his head in exasperation, Kurt tried to calm himself before Murdock showed up.  
  
*****  
  
When the knock came at his door, he was tempted to go out the window. Take his chances with the men out there. But that wouldn't work. Not really. He had things to do here first.  
  
He pulled the chair out from under the doorknob, and pulled the door open as he stepped back to the window. Watched as the priest came slowly into the room. Magill looked over at the bed, where the documents from the box were carefully sorted along the far edge. The contents from the smaller boxes were lined up at the foot of the bed.  
  
"Would you like some breakfast before we talk, Templeton?"  
  
You could be dead before you could swallow.  
  
"It's plain fare they have here, but plenty of it."  
  
Before you even get out of the door.  
  
Magill sighed. "Or, if you prefer, we can talk first."  
  
Such a trusting little man...  
  
"You know the silent treatment never worked with me, Templeton. I could always wait you out." Magill smiled softly.  
  
I know. I know...  
  
*****  
  
He knew very quickly that his hopes for a simple solution wouldn't bear fruit. He spotted Colonel Smith almost immediately, even in his disguise. Regardless of quality, a fake beard was a fake beard, at least to the trained eye. He stepped cautiously up to him.  
  
"Excuse me, sir, are you from around here?"  
  
Smith looked at him, just as warily. "Whaddya wanna know for?"  
  
"Well, I'm looking for this address," he showed Smith a slip of paper with the address to the surveillance building handwritten on it. "I'm supposed to meet the realtor there to see about office space. I'm afraid I got lost, with all the dead end streets. I thought it should be down this way, but..."  
  
Steel blue eyes stared him up and down, but he maintained his befuddled attitude. After a moment, Smith grunted.  
  
"Yeah, you got the right street. Just down a couple more buildings there."  
  
"Thank you, sir. Appreciate it." He smiled gratefully, and hurried down the street, carefully checking the numbers on each building. Arriving in front of his building, he made a show of double-checking the address before stepping up and ringing the bell. A quick flick of his wrist and the lock was open. He stepped in, pretending to greet his host.  
  
Walking up the staircase, he thought about what he might find in the apartment. One person, stuck in the apartment, might have missed Smith and his men. Not three. He stopped on the landing below his floor, double-checked the automatic in his shoulder holster. Held it carefully in his pocket, ready, as he continued up the stairs.  
  
He listened carefully at the door before slipping the catch and pushing the door open. Staying in the hall, he was able to see into the empty room. He listened again before actually stepping into the apartment. It took only moments to check the remaining two rooms.  
  
Completely empty.  
  
It was obvious that the operation had fallen apart. It was quite possible that the base of operations might have been moved, for security reasons. But couple that with the false reports on the Team's presence and it spelled disaster.  
  
So, where were Stockwell's men? Did Smith have them? That would explain a lot. He looked around the apartment one more time, for any sign of the men, not finding any, not expecting to. He glanced out the front window, confirmed that Smith was still in position, and made his way back down the stairwell. This time, however, he moved to the back of the building.  
  
It took him a few minutes to spot the pilot. Not in disguise, but well hidden among the debris in the alley just the same. He stepped back from the door, moved up to the second floor. He broke into one of the back apartments, after making sure the occupants were out. Pulling a powerful scope from his case, he carefully checked the alley and enclosing buildings. He noted two doors that appeared to have been disturbed recently. Whether by the people he was after, or simply the normal occupants, he didn't know.  
  
Not yet.  
  
He glanced at his watch. He'd been here long enough. Smith might be watching for him. He returned to the front door, again made a show of saying goodbye to his nonexistent host, and headed back down the street. He nodded at Smith as he passed, a satisfied smile on his face. Smith did not reply, but he knew he was watched until he turned the corner.  
  
Twenty minutes later he was back in his own hotel room, a plat map of the area in front of him. Later that afternoon he would pay a visit to the two buildings he'd noted. And that night he would pay a visit to Father Magill.


	78. Chapter 78

The two men stood, watching each other, for several minutes. He could almost hear the seconds clicking away in his head. Sounds from the alley behind him were muffled, miles away, even through the window. His attention was on the priest. He looked at his eyes, soft, yet unflinching. Strong with conviction.  
  
And something else.  
  
He finally had to look away. He tried to bring back the hatred for this man. Remember what he had to do. Had to. It was the only way to end this nightmare. Make sure it never happened again.  
  
Don't let him do it again. Not to you. Not to anyone.  
  
His glance settled on the bed. The forms, documents, medals. It was all so neat, so perfect.  
  
No. Not perfect. There were gaps. There were things missing that should have been there, to make it perfect. To make him believe. He'd gone over everything again last night. After looking at the photos. Sorted everything, read everything. Compared it, in his mind, to what Smith had shown him, back at Stockwell's. Between the two sets of forgeries, some of those gaps had been filled. But not all.  
  
There shouldn't have been any gaps. Not if they wanted him to accept their version of his life. It should have all been there.  
  
His life as Sam...they'd given him everything. He knew everything about that life. No gaps. None. If he asked a question, they had an answer.  
  
They had all the answers.  
  
That wasn't right. Logically, he knew it wasn't right. No one could know everything about him.  
  
Smith hadn't known everything. There were questions he'd asked the Colonel that there had been no answers for. He remembered Smith shrugging his shoulders, almost apologetic, shaking his head.  
  
"I don't know about that, Face. I wish I did..."  
  
Barish's people had all the answers. Barish's people knew everything.  
  
Smith hadn't. Did Magill? Would Magill have the answers Smith didn't?  
  
He looked down to the floor beneath the bed. Where he'd thrown the album. He could just see the corner of it. The very first picture. A kid, about five, maybe six. No pictures of him younger than that. But each additional picture was the same kid, a little older in each one, but the same kid. Some by himself, some with other kids, some with Magill. Picture after picture of that same kid growing up, holidays, church events, grade school, high school, graduation. And then the last picture in the album.  
  
The kid in uniform. Pretending to smile. Trying to look cocky, confident. Standing next to Magill. Magill's hand on the kid's shoulder. Smiling, too, but a sad, resigned smile.  
  
Magill's hand on the kid's shoulder. On...his...shoulder...  
  
*****  
  
Kurt pulled a cold beer from the refrigerator and wearily popped the cap off. He took a long swallow and stood, staring at the stained wall over the sink. He waited for a few minutes, knowing Daryl would find his way in soon. They had to talk.  
  
Kurt knew Daryl was no happier about the situation than he was, but he could think of no way out of it. If the scheme was to work, the Colonel couldn't know anything about it. None of the team could. If they found out, it would change the dynamics. Smith would insist on interfering. Well, he wouldn't consider it interference, of course. That was the problem.  
  
Daryl came sauntering casually in, poured a cup of coffee. He frowned slightly at the beer in Kurt's hand. Kurt frowned in return.  
  
"Don't start getting paranoid about it, okay?"  
  
"Sorry, you're right." He sipped the hot coffee, looking out into the living room. The only other person in the apartment was BA, and he was napping on the couch. "So what's up? Anything?"  
  
"He's moved. Across the alley. Cleaned out the other place."  
  
"Is that wise? What about Stockwell?"  
  
"He's not worried, so I'm not going to. He knows what he's doing. I hope."  
  
"What about the Ables?"  
  
"He didn't say anything about them. I was going to check the papers today."  
  
"You really think...?"  
  
"I don't know, Daryl. It all depends on whether or not they gave him any trouble. He's not the most patient person in the world."  
  
"It would give him more clout with Stockwell if he kept them alive."  
  
"I think he's got all the clout he needs. And then some. I tell you, Daryl, for once I actually feel sorry for the General. He's got some big surprises coming."  
  
Daryl shook his head and went back into the living room.  
  
"He's not the only one..."  
  
*****  
  
Father Magill didn't ask Templeton again about breakfast. He'd watched him carefully, those first few minutes. When he'd fixated on something under the bed, Magill had stepped over, reached under and pulled the album out. He didn't ask how it had gotten there. He could guess. He dusted it off, lay it carefully on the bed with the other items from the box.  
  
Templeton's eyes followed the book until Magill stepped back from the bed once again. Then he looked up at Magill, and there was such confusion in his eyes, it made Magill want to grab him and hold him tight, the way he had when he'd been just a boy. But before he could make a move, determination replaced the confusion.  
  
"You have some explaining to do."  
  
"That's why we're here, Templeton."  
  
"You can start with the photos."  
  
"What would you like to know about them, Templeton?"  
  
"Where did you get them? Who made them up for you? Stockwell?"  
  
"Is that what you believe, Templeton?"  
  
"Stop calling me that!"  
  
Magill sighed, patiently. "I believe we went over this last night. You didn't give me another name to use."  
  
"That's because I don't know what my name is. Thanks to Stockwell. And Barish." The blue eyes glared at him. "And you."  
  
That caught the priest by surprise. "Me? I don't understand..."  
  
"I didn't recognize you until I actually saw you yesterday. On the street. Then I knew. I remembered you. You were with Barish."  
  
"No, Templeton..."  
  
"Don't lie to me! How else would I know who you were?"  
  
"If you remembered me, Templeton, you know I had nothing to do with Stockwell or that other person. You know me from the orphanage. Where you grew up."  
  
"No! I had a family! A mother and a father! I lived in a house, just like all the other kids! All that shit about the orphanage is a lie!"  
  
"I wish that were true, Templeton, I really do. But the truth is there on the bed. That's all the history we have for you."  
  
In two strides, Templeton was at the bed, sweeping everything off the bed and onto the floor. Magill grabbed the photo album, clasping it to his chest. He stared at the angry, anguished man who stood at the foot of the bed, breath coming out in gasps.  
  
"I...had...a...family..."  
  
"You saw the pictures, Templeton. You studied those documents. You know the truth, my boy. You know I wouldn't lie to you." Magill looked right into Templeton's eyes. "You know I never lied to you, don't you?"  
  
"I don't know any such thing!"  
  
Magill stayed quiet. He watched, outwardly calm, as Templeton paced the room before suddenly leaning against the wall, staring back the priest.  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"I want to help you, Templeton."  
  
The harsh laughter made Magill wince, in spite of himself. Templeton slid down to sit on the floor, his head back, eyes closed.  
  
"Help me? Is that what you call this? Throwing all these lies at me, trying to confuse me? I should've killed you last night and been done with it."  
  
Magill stepped back then, chilled at the calm utterance of those words. Colonel Smith had told him that Templeton could be dangerous, but he hadn't really understood - or accepted - the reality behind the words. Templeton had wanted to kill him?  
  
He stared down at the man he'd raised from childhood, watching until it became apparent that he was not going to speak again. Magill suddenly felt the album pressing against his chest. His fingers were stiff from holding it tightly. He looked down at the book, then over at Templeton.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he stepped slowly across the room until he stood next to the sitting man. Quietly, stiffly, he settled himself down beside him, and opened the album. He looked at the first picture in the book, waiting to see if there would be any reaction from Templeton. When he remained quiet, eyes still closed, Magill realized he was too mentally exhausted to react any more. The priest looked back at the photo, and his mind traveled back over the decades.  
  
"I remember the day they brought you to me," he began, gently. "Two police women, and a social worker. You were so scared, but you weren't about to let anyone know it..."  
  
The two men sat against the wall, the soft voice murmuring on...


	79. Chapter 79

His nickname was the Preacher. Not for any religious values; he, like the others, seemed to have none. No, he'd gotten the nickname from his propensity to lecture those he went after, explaining in great detail why they had erred, and why that meant he had to deal with them. A sermon, of sorts, but not one that would be heard in any church.  
  
Perhaps it was his sense of right and wrong that made this assignment so difficult. Certainly, the people he was after had strayed, but they had, in reality, done nothing wrong. Other than outwit the General. And they were, after all, members of the same fraternity.  
  
The one that had caused the real damage was already dead; his accomplice, if one could even call him that, was clearly not in his right mind. Lead astray. A lost sheep. One to be brought back into the fold. That's what the General wanted, for all of them, and therefore that's what the Preacher wanted.  
  
All they had to do was cooperate.  
  
Once he knew what had happened to the Ables originally sent here to watch the priest, he would know if that was possible. He knew Smith was not a killer, would not willingly allow any member of the team to kill. At least, he hadn't in the past. But he knew the history of this entire quest, knew there was a blood trail and that Smith's men, to some extent and one in particular, had been involved in the deaths. If the Ables were still alive, Smith and his team would live to return to the General.  
  
If not...  
  
He'd started with the first derelict building he'd spotted earlier. Several people still lived in it. It seemed less rundown than the other. And it was directly across from the Church's building. If he were to choose a new command post, this would be the one he would use.  
  
As he stepped through the front door, an old man came down the stairs with a small dog on a leash. The dog started to growl, but a sharp word from the old man silenced it. He and the man exchanged looks, contempt in the wrinkled face. He took a half-step to the side, just enough to subtly block the elderly man's way.  
  
"You live here, old man?" He smiled, softening his words.  
  
"Yeah. So?" Belligerence in the voice, but a quaver, too. Good.  
  
"I don't want any trouble, Pops. I'm looking for some people. New to the neighborhood."  
  
The old man took in the suit, the demeanor. "Cop?" A hint of hope in the voice.  
  
"You could say that. Seen anyone?"  
  
The old man licked his lips, looked down at his dog. Thought for a moment. "Second floor, back."  
  
The Preacher smiled. "Thanks, Pops." He stepped around him and moved quietly up the stairs.  
  
Shaking his head, the old man continued out the door. His dog would have an extra long walk this morning.  
  
*****  
  
He had turned down the mic's some time ago, so the voices in the room were a mere murmur in the background. Occasionally he had turned it up to listen, when the voices had gotten louder, or the tempo changed. Otherwise, he had no desire to actively listen to what went on between the two men.  
  
He wasn't even sure why he was still recording it. Insurance, he would guess. Against the future. Or reference, for the future.  
  
At any rate, it wasn't for Stockwell's uses. That much he knew for sure.  
  
Turning the volume up just a tad, he wandered through the vacant apartment. Mice, maybe rats, probably both, scuttled through the walls at the sound of his steps. He stopped in what would have been the living room, staring idly around. He was glad it wasn't on the top floor; the heat of the day was already seeping in, making the rooms stuffy and close.  
  
He stood there for some time, listening to the dim street noises, an occasional groan from the building's ancient plumbing. There were a couple "real" apartments still here, die-hards holding on to their homes for as long as they could before the city finished condemnation procedures. One, an elderly man, had glared at him from the upper stairwell on his last trip from the old apartment. He'd smiled back, trying to reassure him, but the man had just turned back through his door, shutting it firmly behind him.  
  
He shook his head, sadly, thinking about that old man. He knew he would never be that old. Nowhere near it. Did he regret that reality? All the things he would miss, growing old? All the things he wouldn't see, wouldn't experience? Not really. Seeing that old man reminded him that growing old merely meant living through more disappointments than those who died young.  
  
If it hadn't been for his roommates in the walls, he might have missed it. But the sudden scurrying amidst the silence caught his attention, and he heard the footsteps outside his door...  
  
*****  
  
He stopped, head up, eyes closed, listening. Through the thin door, he could just make out voices. Barely. Probably from the back of the apartment.  
  
The missing Ables?  
  
Now, that would put a kink in the General's theory. And certainly make his job a lot easier. He shook his head.  
  
Things were never that easy.  
  
He moved closer to the door, hand lightly resting on the knob. He could hear nothing else coming from the apartment. If they kept talking, they would never hear him enter. Regardless of who was in the room, he knew they were highly trained and wouldn't appreciate being taken by surprise. When they realized he was inside, they would react without thinking, instinctively. He knew how to handle that, too.  
  
Carefully, he tried the doorknob, expecting it to be locked. He looked at the door critically. Obviously whoever was in there had only recently moved in - the lock was original, simple to open. Of course, he couldn't know what kind of booby traps might be on the other side, but he would be expecting them and know how to react.  
  
The door slowly slid open. The voices never hesitated. A good sign. He stopped. Something odd about those voices. They didn't sound right. He stepped quietly inside, leaving the door open behind him. Took another step. Felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise.  
  
Something was definitely wrong. He didn't know what until he felt the tip of the blade against the small of his back. Heard a quiet chuckle.  
  
"No one ever looks behind the door, do they?"  
  
*****  
  
The door was pushed open, protesting loudly. He peered inside the room, barely making out the contents in the dim light from the dirt frosted windows. It looked like nothing more than old furniture, piled high and precariously. Then he heard a muffled noise from the corner. Squinting to see, he looked closer.  
  
Ah, yes. As promised.  
  
He nodded at his companion, and the two men retreated from the dust and mold. The door squeaked to a close behind them, locking the noises inside once more.  
  
Silently, the two men climbed the stairs and stepped out into the street above, squinting at the late afternoon sun. He looked again at his companion, who nodded his head at a small cafe across the street. Both men glanced around them before crossing. Once inside, they moved of one accord to a small table near the kitchen. They sat, one facing the kitchen door, the other the main entrance. The waitress took their order and the two men sipped coffee until it arrived. Once the waitress had retreated to her movie magazine behind the counter, they began softly talking.  
  
"He'll never go along with this, you know."  
  
"Oh, I think he will. After all, it's merely a matter of restoring the status quo. And he's getting what he says he wants, after all."  
  
"Not everything."  
  
"Everything he needs. The other is my insurance."  
  
"Only insurance?"  
  
"Only insurance. There's been enough damage done to shove home the lesson. And too much peripheral damage. It's time to be done with it."  
  
He cut his steak - cooked too fast, making tough and leathery - and chewed thoughtfully before speaking again. "And what of the rest? Are you so sure they'll agree to this?"  
  
"I only have to convince the one; the rest will follow."  
  
"Including..."  
  
"I can't speak to that. Not yet."  
  
"Will the rest cooperate without him?"  
  
"If it means his safety, yes."  
  
"And if he takes matters into his own hands?"  
  
"I'll deal with it. No one else need be involved."  
  
"You've yet to explain why I should go along with this scheme of yours. What do I get out of it?"  
  
"You'll get credit for pulling it all out of the fire. For getting the parties together. That was, after all, the only thing I hadn't quite figured out yet. How to contact him without giving it all away. Your showing up was quite fortuitous, actually. The perfect go-between."  
  
"Hmm. As long as he sees it that way."  
  
"He sent you here to see what was going on, to clean up any messes. I'd say this accomplishes that quite nicely. And without any bloodshed. What more could he ask for?"  
  
"Your head on a platter, to start with."  
  
"And would you deliver?" The words were spoken calmly, but there was no mistaking the menace beneath it.  
  
"You're dead. How does one deliver a ghost?"  
  
The two men smiled at each other, smiles not quite genuine.


	80. Chapter 80

Father Magill had talked until he was hoarse, and still he kept talking. As long as Templeton would listen, he would talk. Occasionally, there would be a question; sometimes, there would be a denial. On a couple of occasions, anger. But mainly, Templeton had listened, silently.  
  
It had worried Magill, for a while. He had begun to wonder if what he was saying was actually being believed, or if the man seated next to him was merely taking on yet another past, something to fill the void. Although, it was hard to dispute the photos. The truth was there. Not that Templeton hadn't tried to show how they could have been faked; in the end, it wasn't so much the boy growing up in them that had defeated his arguments. It had been the other people. Father Magill, himself, showing up in many of them, aging gradually. The nuns. The other kids. Kids, who appeared for a few pictures, then suddenly disappeared; who grew up with him for a couple of months, a couple of years, and then just weren't there any more.  
  
He remembered the kids. Every one of them.  
  
Templeton hesitantly started telling Magill what had happened to each of them. In detail. Unerringly. He knew exactly when they had been adopted, every date that another one had left. It was when the tone of voice had changed that Magill had decided it was time to stop for a bit. At first, it had been an almost mechanical response to the photos, as if something just clicked inside his mind and he could recite the details as if by rote. Then he'd started turning the pages, going back to first one photo, then another, repeating the details, adding to them. But there was something new in the voice. He was no longer reciting facts. He was telling Magill when his friends had abandoned him, betrayed him, left him for the family he would never have. The voice became a mix of anger, sadness, bewilderment.  
  
The words gradually became more and more jumbled; it was obvious Templeton was at the end of his rope. In the space of less than twelve hours, he'd gone from a calculating, angry and dangerous man to a confused, befuddled and exhausted one. Magill finally convinced him to move from the floor to the bed, and left him sitting there, staring off, while he went hurriedly to the kitchen. It was time to let the mind rest, and take care of the body.  
  
The sister smiled at him encouragingly when he entered the small kitchen. Silently he blessed her for her foresight, as several sandwiches were already made up, wrapped to keep them fresh, and soup had been kept warm on the stove. Within minutes, she had helped him carry the lunch to Templeton's room, although she waited outside while he took the small feast inside. She understood where she was needed - in the background, supporting them both invisibly.  
  
Templeton ate without enthusiasm, but he did eat. Magill talked calmly about nothing, the weather, the garden in the courtyard, a bit about the history of the building they were in. Nothing that had anything to do with Templeton's past. When the meal was finished, he quietly picked up everything from the box and packed it away. He suggested Templeton rest, or walk around the garden; they would talk again later. Then he took the dishes and the box and left.  
  
The box went into his own room, on the floor at the foot of his bed. He sighed deeply; he felt nearly as exhausted as he knew Templeton was. But he had one more thing to do before he would rest.  
  
He shut his door quietly behind him, and headed for the chapel.  
  
*****  
  
"Anything, Hannibal?"  
  
"Nothing yet, Murdock. He'll let us know if he needs us. Or if Face..." Hannibal chewed hard on his cigar, stared out of the window toward the street below. "He'll let us know."  
  
Murdock frowned at the response. He'd expected something more along the lines of, "I'll send one of you over there in a while to check things out.", or "I've arranged to meet with Father Magill later this afternoon." Maybe even, "BA bugged the priest; here's what's happened so far." He didn't like this idea of waiting for someone else to call the shots, and he liked Hannibal's calm acceptance of it even less. That wasn't Hannibal. But then, none of them was acting like normal any more. Hadn't in a long, long time.  
  
He'd relinquished his spot in the alley to BA a short while ago. No one had come into the alley who didn't look like they belonged there. No strange vehicles. He'd caught movement through Face's window a couple of times, nothing clear; just...movement.  
  
He looked over at Kurt, who was idly clicking on the remote. BA still hadn't gotten it fixed, another thing that was out of kilter. But then, maybe BA hadn't really been that interested in fixing it. Murdock looked harder at Kurt. He was tense, as they all were, but there was something else, too. Both he and Daryl were acting strange. Distant. And Murdock had noticed they kept looking at each other, when they thought no one was watching.  
  
Like they were waiting for something.  
  
Hell, weren't they all?  
  
A sudden clatter from the kitchen brought his attention to the last person in the apartment. Frankie. The only one who was still acting halfway normal. Which actually could be odd, all things considered. Murdock had to wonder what Frankie was really thinking about all of this. He'd been caught in a maelstrom from the git-go. First being blamed for killing Face, then having everyone trying to make him into something he clearly wasn't. Then the hunt, the killings...now this. Except for a few rough spots, Frankie had somehow managed to hang on to his normalcy. Maybe he'd finally found his niche. To help the rest of them keep their balance, a reminder that there was something else.  
  
The object of Murdock's thoughts suddenly looked up from the clutter of pots and pans in front of him. He'd promised to make the gang a "monumental" dinner, using an old family recipe, but it was proving a little more complicated than he'd remembered. He wiped his hands on the towel and wandered out to the living room, flopping down on the couch, discouraged.  
  
"Hey, guys, maybe we should just get take-out tonight, whaddya think?"  
  
Hannibal turned from the window, a small smile on his face. "Trouble in kitchen paradise, Frankie?"  
  
"Yeah, well, it never looked that hard when my mom made it, but..."  
  
"Don't worry about it, Frankie." Hannibal's smile faded as he turned back to the window, the moment of levity almost making him feel guilty.  
  
Frankie looked around at the morose group of men. Something had been worrying him, and, even though they all knew things were coming to a head, no one had mentioned it yet. He might get his head bitten off, but maybe now was the time to bring it up.  
  
"Uh, Johnny..."  
  
"Yeah, Frankie?" Hannibal wasn't really paying attention; his thoughts were on the man who had just turned the corner and was walking down the street toward the retreat.  
  
"I was just wondering, you know, uh, what your plans are?"  
  
Hannibal turned and looked curiously at Frankie. "Plans?"  
  
"Well, yeah. I mean, for after. I mean, after we know what Face is going to do, what are we going to do?"  
  
"That kinda depends on Face, Frankie."  
  
"Well, what if he's okay again? What then? Are we going back to Stockwell?"  
  
"I'm not going back to the General. No way. The farther I am from that bastard, the longer he lives!" Murdock spoke up, angrily.  
  
"That's enough of that kind of talk, Captain." There was no arguing with Hannibal's tone of voice. He looked sternly at everyone in the room. "I can't speak for you, Kurt, Daryl, but as much as I hate the idea, we don't have much choice but to go back to Langley." He shook his head, cutting off Murdock's protest. "I know, Murdock, but he's still holding all the cards. If we don't go back, we won't have just the military to worry about. And there's still a chance we can get those pardons."  
  
"After all this? And I thought I was the insane one!" Murdock threw his hands up in exasperation.  
  
"The Colonel's right, Murdock." Kurt spoke up, quietly. "Until now, the General's been playing it loose, probably hoping you could still come up with those files. But if you try to disappear, well, it just won't happen. He can make it so hot, you'll wish you'd stayed in the VA. He's got the connections, believe me. But if you go back of your own accord, he'll deal. He won't make it easy, but he'll deal."  
  
"And what if Magill can't pull Face back? What if he decides to hit the road?"  
  
"All the more reason to go back to Stockwell. You can protect him that way, make it part of the deal. Otherwise, I wouldn't give two cents for his chances."  
  
"You don't know Face very well, then."  
  
"And you don't know Stockwell. Look, I know you guys managed great against the military - but you were a team, then, too. The General is very different from the MP's, and Sam would be on his own, with questionable stability. You really want to pit the two of them against each other under those circumstances?"  
  
Murdock was silent. What Kurt was saying was true. He had no doubt Face could last quite some time on his own, but eventually...Stockwell would win. Face was too much a team player; they all were. There would come a time when Face would make a mistake, and then Stockwell would be all over him. And if Face were still in the mindset he had been, there would be no way he would let Stockwell take him alive. If the team didn't go back, didn't make a deal to protect him, Face would be dead.  
  
One way or another, they would end up with Stockwell. They had to.  
  
*****  
  
The Preacher moved casually up the street. He knew he was being watched, and from where. Smith would undoubtedly recognize him from the other day; that was all right. After all, he was 'renting' office space here. It wouldn't be that unusual for him to be interested in meeting some of the neighbors.  
  
He stopped in front of the Church property, hesitated a moment. He didn't want to appear too sure of himself; more like simple curiosity about a building with the rather curious name of Sunrise House posted on it. Seemingly making up his mind, he stepped up to the door and rang the bell. A nun answered his summons moments later.  
  
"Good evening, Sister. I'd like to speak with Father Magill. I was told he was staying here."  
  
"I'm not sure he's taking visitors. He's on retreat..."  
  
"I think he'll see me, Sister. If you would tell him Colonel Smith sent me." He smiled, reassuring. The nun frowned, still hesitating. Normal practice said no visitors, but she knew Father was here for a special reason.  
  
"Very well, sir. If you don't mind waiting..."  
  
He smiled as he stepped inside.


	81. Chapter 81

He was thinking. He'd tried not to, for a long time, but the visions kept flashing through his head, a kaleidoscope of people and places and events...and he couldn't stop thinking about them. The photos. He'd looked at each one, just a glance at first, and then taking longer and longer before turning to the next one. And then he'd gone back to the beginning and studied each one. Carefully. Knowing he would find a flaw in them. Somewhere.  
  
It had taken him a long time to admit there weren't any.  
  
He'd started all over, yet again, looking at the photos with a new perspective. These were real photos of real people. At what point had they started merging his pictures with those of the young boy? At what age had they resembled each other enough?  
  
Another flaw he couldn't find.  
  
He'd tossed the book under the bed. He didn't want to see it. Didn't want to look at it. Instead, he pulled the remaining contents from the box and began sorting them. Chronologically. Then by type. Then back to time frame. Read them. Each one of them. Studied them. Over and over and over...  
  
He hadn't yet slept when the priest arrived in the morning. He didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to listen to him. Every fiber of his body fought against the logic of what he'd already seen and read. The last thing he wanted was this man trying to persuade him to accept what was in that damn box.  
  
And then, even after he'd told the priest that he'd planned on killing him, for God's sake, the old man had just shuffled over and sat down and started talking...the man had balls. No matter what he'd thrown at him, no matter what arguments he gave, the old man just stuck to his guns. Telling him about the why's and where's and who's...  
  
And then something had clicked. Inside. He looked at a photo and from somewhere inside he knew who it was and where it was. And he'd looked at the next one and the next and the next and each one drew a shadow from his mind and made it real. He knew these people. Knew their names. Knew their ages. Knew what they'd done, what they'd said. And he knew when they'd left him.  
  
They had all eventually left him.  
  
Everyone except the priest. The old priest who sat on the hard floor, talking, listening, hour after hour. Letting him know, despite everything, that someone had cared.  
  
And still did. Despite the threat.  
  
This gentle, caring old man, with his soft, rumbly voice...  
  
Damn.  
  
That voice. The voice from his memory. From Sam's memory.  
  
His father's voice...  
  
*****  
  
Father Magill stepped out of the chapel, feeling tired and yet refreshed. Or maybe relieved would be more accurate. Call him old-fashioned, or quaint, or even silly, but talking with Him always made him feel somehow confident and...safe. The feeling that, no matter how difficult things might get, He would make sure things turned out for the best, one way or the other. Not always the way one might wish them to turn out, but the way they should.  
  
He'd only gone a few steps down the hall toward his room when Sister approached him.  
  
"Father, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a gentleman to see you. He said to tell you a Colonel Smith had sent him."  
  
Magill frowned. He and Colonel Smith had made an agreement - no interference. The colonel was supposed to wait until Father Magill contacted him. Something must have happened. Trouble from the military? Or that general Colonel Smith had told him about? The look on the nun's face reminded him of his pledge to the Colonel to be careful. It was only then he realized the man might have lied about Smith. Sighing in frustration, he nodded at her and changed direction. Like it or not, Magill would have to see him.  
  
He stepped into the small office where his visitor had been located. They looked at each other for a moment, each one openly appraising the other. Magill wasn't sure he liked the looks of the other man; he just didn't seem like the kind of person Colonel Smith would have any association with. At least, not voluntarily.  
  
"You wanted to speak with me? I'm afraid my memory isn't what it used to be; I don't believe we've met before..."  
  
"No, Father, we've never met. But we do have something - or rather, someone - in common. Lieutenant Peck."  
  
Magill's suspicions were growing. "You said a Colonel Smith had sent you."  
  
The man smiled, ingratiatingly. "In a way, he did. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be here."  
  
That decided the priest. "I'm afraid I have nothing to say to you, sir. If you'll excuse me..."  
  
"Actually, Father, it would be in the lieutenant's best interests if we did talk. I have associates who may be able to, well, shall we say, clear the path for the lieutenant? And his friends, as well."  
  
"Clear the path to where?"  
  
The man smiled again, this time clearly appreciating the quickness of the man he faced. "To a place where he and his friends can start over. No ghosts haunting them. No recriminations. There would be a price, of course, but one they were already willing to pay. Interested?"  
  
Magill stood for a moment before seating himself at the desk. "Go on."  
  
"First, I have a question to ask of you. I would remind you to be perfectly honest with me, but I don't think that's necessary."  
  
Despite himself, Magill allowed himself an ironic smile.  
  
The man leaned forward, smile gone. Deadly serious. "Tell me, Father Magill. Is Lieutenant Peck a good man?"  
  
Magill was taken somewhat by surprise. The glib words almost came out, until he looked into the other man's eyes. He wanted the truth, nothing trite. And it was important that he get the truth. Magill thought hard for a moment, then cleared his throat.  
  
"Templeton Peck is a con artist. A liar. He cheats, he steals, he flaunts the law. He chases women shamelessly. He's broken nearly every commandment, much to my sorrow. And yet, if you're hungry, he'll give you his last slice of bread; if you're lonely, he'll be your friend; if you're in trouble, he'll risk his life to help you. And he'll ask nothing in return if you have nothing to give. By rights, he should be bitter and cynical; he is neither, although he'd like people to believe otherwise.  
  
"You ask if he is a good man. All I can say is that he is my friend, and I am proud to have him as such. I would be devastated if I were to lose that."  
  
The other man sat back, nodding, a satisfied smile on his face. "I thought as much. Good. Now, I have a rather interesting story to tell you..."  
  
*****  
  
He felt the headache coming on, the nausea. He fought it. Tried to remember what that psychiatrist had told him, how to beat them back. It was Barish. Barish had made him feel this way, every time the old memories had tried to surface. It had taken so long to learn how to fight it, push back the sickness, the consequences of trying to remember.  
  
And he had done it. For a long time, he'd been able to fight back. But the memories hadn't come as he'd expected. No floodgates opening, no magnificent revelations. Only bits and pieces. An occasional flash. It wore him down, the constant battle to let the doors open, only to have such slender shadows flit through. He'd expected more. Wanted more.  
  
He'd wanted it to work, damn it!  
  
It hadn't. It couldn't. For one very good reason.  
  
They hadn't understood. Hell, he hadn't, not until now. Hadn't understood that to accept the truth he had to accept all of it. He couldn't pick and choose. Couldn't block out this bit and that piece. He had to accept his life for what it was.  
  
And that included Randy.  
  
The pain slammed across his head and he reeled across the room. God, he had to fight it! He had to! But Randy...God...  
  
Randy was dead...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal woke up, startled. He didn't know what had awakened him. The apartment was silent, the men asleep. He glanced at the luminous dial of the clock. Too soon for the change of watch. So that wasn't it.  
  
Slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb the others, he climbed out of the bed and headed into the living room. BA was there, awake, watching out the window. Hannibal couldn't see his face in the darkness, but knew BA wondered why he was up at this hour. He stepped carefully to stand beside his sergeant, glancing down at the dark empty street.  
  
"Anything?"  
  
"Nothin, Hannibal. Not since that guy left earlier."  
  
That guy. Hannibal hadn't seen him, but BA had. Nothing outstanding about him, nothing that would distinguish him from anyone else on the street. Nothing except he had come out of the Church building. That had bothered Hannibal. He didn't like it; he liked it even less knowing the man had gone in without being seen by any of them.  
  
He'd been sorely tempted to go over himself, find out who the guy was, what he wanted, who he talked to. Tempted, but he hadn't gone. Father Magill would have contacted him if there was a problem. They had discussed it over the phone, several times. The failsafe. Hannibal knew what the dangers were, and had tried to impress that on the priest. He thought he'd done a pretty good job. Magill had promised to be careful. Very careful.  
  
Hannibal sighed. So everything was quiet. Whatever had awakened him, it had nothing to do with the people across the street.  
  
*****  
  
He jerked awake, instantly tense and defensive. He looked around the room, listening for anything and everything. The only noise was a shuffling noise from the room across the alley. He looked through the telescope. The light was on in the room. The man inside was pacing, rapidly, holding his head. Almost bouncing from wall to wall. At intervals he would drop down to the bed, head down, folding in on himself. And then he was up again, pacing.  
  
He stepped back from the scope, frowning deeply. He was tempted to go over there. Or call the priest. But he couldn't interfere. Not that much.  
  
There were some things he couldn't do.


	82. Chapter 82

"Templeton?"  
  
Father Magill leaned over the bed, concern deepening the furrows on his face. The man on the bed was staring blankly up at the ceiling; Magill had doubts if he had slept at all last night. Frankly, from the looks of him, he probably hadn't slept since arriving.  
  
"Yes, Father?" The voice was rough, and he coughed softly. The eyes never wavered.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, Father." Voice steady now.  
  
Magill sighed. He straightened and reached for a chair. Seating himself beside the bed, he placed his hand gently on Face's forehead. Face flinched, but otherwise didn't react. He felt a little too warm. Magill sat back, not sure how to proceed.  
  
"Father?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Tell me about the bicycle."  
  
"Bicycle?"  
  
*****  
  
"Bicycle?"  
  
Fear washed over him. Had he been wrong? No, no, he couldn't be. Not again. He waited, almost not daring to breathe.  
  
The priest remained silent for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, Magill straightened in the chair, chuckling.  
  
"The bicycle! Of course!"  
  
He felt light-headed.  
  
"You were...nine...maybe ten. We had gotten a bicycle, brand new. A donation from...oh, what was his name now? Well, doesn't matter. There were maybe a dozen of you who were big enough to ride it, and only a couple of you knew how. So the sisters and I started teaching each of you."  
  
He felt a shimmer of disappointment. It wasn't quite right...  
  
"Oh, and Javier. I don't remember the last name now. He was a volunteer." Magill frowned. "No, he wasn't exactly a volunteer. Community service. But a nice young man. Very nice."  
  
He almost smiled at that.  
  
"Anyway, back to the bike. We were working with each of you, but something happened. You suddenly didn't want to ride that bike any more." The priest looked over at him. He remained quiet. "I believe there was some problem between you and Michael, wasn't there? Neither of you would say anything, but I know there was something. The two of you never did get along..."  
  
You got that right, Father. Michael was a 'foster', one of the kids who were there temporarily until whatever family problems they were having were straightened out. Unlike most of the fosters, Michael had lorded it over the others, taking particular interest in tormenting Templeton.  
  
"You started disappearing with Javier. One of the sisters noticed it first. I didn't like it, I remember that. I wasn't too sure about Javier." Magill again looked over at him, but he remained still. "I do believe it was Javier who taught you a few things I wish he hadn't."  
  
Oh, yeah. Javier taught me a lot of things, Father. Things that came in very useful, later on...  
  
"I tried to talk to you about it, and you wouldn't tell me what was going on. Just kept saying you didn't care about the bike any more. Denied that you and Javier were doing anything together. I believe that was the first time you ever lied to me."  
  
After all these years, the disappointment was still there. He shifted uncomfortably. After all these years, the guilt was still there, too.  
  
"At any rate, I started keeping an eye on the two of you. And finally, I caught you." Magill shook his head, a smile on his face. "There you were, in the old shed at the back. Greasy and dirty, working on that old, battered bicycle Javier had found at the junk yard. You had it almost finished when I discovered what you were up to."  
  
He did smile that time. He and Javier had spent hours rebuilding that wreck of a bike. He wouldn't have traded it for anything...  
  
"The looks on your faces when I walked in on you! Guilt and pride fighting each other. But it didn't matter. The three of us finished it that day, and we had you riding it in a couple of days. Oh, how my legs ached from running down that alley beside you!" Magill laughed out loud. "And Javier. I don't think that boy could've been any prouder...He went on to become a social worker, did you know that? Working with kids in trouble with the law. Turned out to be a fine man..."  
  
It didn't surprise him. Javier had been like a brother. He remembered all those hours, working together, talking about everything and anything. Sometimes not talking at all, just working together.  
  
"What made you ask about the bicycle, Templeton?"  
  
He didn't say anything for a few minutes. It was back to the now, the here, the today.  
  
"Templeton?"  
  
Don't worry, Father. You passed the test...  
  
He suddenly felt bone tired. He closed his eyes and drifted away...  
  
*****  
  
He awoke feeling refreshed, ready for the day. It had been good, talking to the priest yesterday. It solidified things for him. Put the last pieces of the puzzle into place. He now saw the reasoning his new partner had used, and he agreed with it. The perfect compromise.  
  
No one would be totally happy with it. But no one would have to die, either.  
  
He glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed. He'd have plenty of time to shower and grab some breakfast before going to the apartment. It would just be a matter of waiting, now, until the right time. He would have to contact the General sometime today, to let him know what was going on. That would be a little tricky. Everything he intended to tell Stockwell would be a lie, and it would be discovered as soon as he presented their deal. That made his future a little dodgy, but, as his partner had explained, it would work out to his advantage in the long run.  
  
Stockwell admired audacity. To a certain point.  
  
But, after all, he would be getting what he wanted. Mostly...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal had finally gone back to bed after BA had grumbled long enough about it. He'd spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning, tired but unable to fall into sleep. He couldn't get rid of that nagging feeling that there was something wrong, something he should know about, something he should do.  
  
It wasn't until morning, when he heard the rest of the men stirring about the apartment, that he suddenly felt at peace. Whatever it was that had bothered him throughout the night was gone. He shook his head. Figured. Time to get up and now he felt like he could sleep forever...  
  
BA quietly opened the bedroom door, concerned that the Colonel might still be awake. It wasn't like Hannibal to have trouble sleeping. Looking in, he smiled, satisfied.  
  
They could handle things without their leader for a few hours...  
  
*****  
  
He listened to the story with keen interest. It explained a few things. And told him one other.  
  
It was almost time...


	83. Chapter 83

"You're quite positive?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Nothing amiss; simply a coincidence. Able 40 just happened to be the one who made the reports. Smith isn't here, nor are any of the men who were with him."  
  
Stockwell sighed. He didn't like it. There should have been some word of Smith's whereabouts. He had too many feelers out; no way he could've disappeared that completely.  
  
"All right. You may as well return to Langley..."  
  
"If it's all right with you, sir, I'd like to stick around a few days yet."  
  
"May I ask why? You said it was quiet."  
  
"Yes, sir, but there's something about the priest that bears watching. He didn't seem to know anything about Smith's location, and yet..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Well, he is a priest, sir. Of the old school. They make terrible liars. There's something he wasn't telling me. I'd like to keep an eye on things, just in case."  
  
"Hmm. Very well. I'll expect a report immediately should there be anything - and, I mean anything - unusual."  
  
"Definitely, sir. You'll be the first to know..."  
  
*****  
  
He stared out of the window, out into the alley. He'd seen him almost immediately, but no longer felt threatened. As he watched him now, he felt only...sadness.  
  
He heard the soft knock on the door before it slowly opened. He turned, looked at the priest, who hesitated, smiling softly.  
  
"Good morning, Templeton. Did you sleep well?"  
  
He had. At first. It wasn't until sometime around three in the morning that he'd first awakened, anxious, disoriented. The same type of dreams he'd had...before. All the characters from his lives jumbled together in a nonsensical kaleidoscope of events.  
  
He'd stayed awake after that, trying to sort through things. He thought he had finally made that connection, made the breakthrough. That he knew what was real, what wasn't. But it wasn't that simple. It wasn't that easy.  
  
Because of Sam.  
  
Sam kept coming back, in one way, shape or form. Kept inserting memories into his own, where they no longer belonged. He knew they didn't. But it was hard to pull them out, distinguish them from his own. Sometimes he couldn't. So he had to choose. He wasn't sure if he always chose correctly. But he figured he had a gauge, of sorts.  
  
Whatever didn't cause a headache was false.  
  
"Templeton?"  
  
He'd completely forgotten about the priest, standing there, starting to look concerned.  
  
"Yes...yes, Father. I slept very well."  
  
*****  
  
"Well?"  
  
"I think he's close. Another couple of days and we'll know for sure. If it works out, you can make your pitch."  
  
"This better work."  
  
"It will. Stockwell knows where his vulnerabilities are. And who else knows them. He'll cooperate. He won't have any choice."  
  
The two men sat, silent now, listening to the voices in the building across the street. The Preacher was still not sure about this enterprise, but was gaining confidence as the other man gave him more and more details. He knew he would never know all of it, but that didn't matter. He was being told enough. He glanced over at his 'partner', speculating.  
  
"Is your reputation earned, or just legend?"  
  
A momentary look of surprise, followed by amusement.  
  
"You're direct. I like that." He stood, looked absently out of the window. Spoke to the glass. "As to my reputation, well, everyone's is a bit overblown." He glanced at the Preacher. "But there has to be a modicum of truth behind every legend, right? I've never just dismissed what I've heard about other men. A smart man doesn't."  
  
The Preacher thought about that for a few minutes. A warning? Or just a reminder?  
  
"What about Smith? Think he's everything he's made out to be?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. Everything and more. But there's one very important thing to remember when you talk to him."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"He's most dangerous when he's angry. And he's most angry when one or more of his men is threatened." He moved to the door, picking up both coffee cups as he passed. He looked back at the Preacher. "Don't make him angry, Preacher. Give him what he wants - a guarantee that his men - all of his men - will be safe. He'll agree to almost anything for that."  
  
The Preacher sat quietly, the murmur of the voices like white noise. All great leaders looked out for their people. It was their biggest strength.  
  
And their biggest weakness.  
  
*****  
  
"You trust him?"  
  
"He was your selection, Carla. You tell me."  
  
Carla sighed. She had known, right from the start, that getting involved with Smith and the team was a mistake. Everything they touched got complicated. Especially for her.  
  
"He's loyal, General. He will do whatever is best for the organization."  
  
"Is that a yes, Carla?"  
  
Time to bite the bullet and hope for the best...  
  
"Yes, General. You can trust him."  
  
*****  
  
They sat in the garden. It was quiet; now and then they could catch a glimpse of one of the nuns moving about, but they themselves were undisturbed. Magill knew Templeton wanted to discuss something with him, but, as always, was having a difficult time getting started. It was always that way when it was something important. So he waited patiently, knowing that eventually the fountainhead would eventually burst. Even so, he was taken by surprise.  
  
"Did Smith...Colonel Smith...Hannibal...did he tell you everything?"  
  
"I'm not sure what..."  
  
"Did he tell you about Randy?"  
  
"Ah, yes. Yes, he did, Templeton. And about...Sam. And Dr. Barish."  
  
"Forget them. What did he tell you about Randy?"  
  
"Well, he..."  
  
"Did he tell you he took care of me? That I took care of him? That he was the closest thing to a family I can remember having? Closer even than Smith? Or BA? Or Murdock? Or even you? Did he tell you that?"  
  
Magill was taken aback, not only by the words, rushed and loud, but by the anger in them.  
  
"I don't think he knew..."  
  
"No, he didn't know. He doesn't yet. He doesn't want to know about Randy, about what he was to me. He wants me to forget he even existed. But I can't do that! Why won't he understand that? Especially now..."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"Randy's dead, Father. Didn't Smith tell you that? He died. He was blown up. In Mexico. And we were in Mexico because of me. Because I turned on him. I turned on Randy. But he didn't walk away, even then. He didn't. He died trying to protect me. Even after I..."  
  
Magill remained silent, waiting for Templeton to continue. For several minutes, Templeton sat with his head down, hands clasped tightly. When he spoke next, his voice was so low Magill could barely hear it.  
  
"I want to go back, Father. I want things to be the way they used to be, with them...but how can they? Everything's different now. I can't just forget Randy. I can't wipe all of that out."  
  
"I don't think Colonel Smith will expect you to, Templeton. Not any more. He's learned a few things. He knows how important Randy was to you. They all know that."  
  
"Do they? Really?" Templeton stood, ran his hand through his hair. It was obvious to the priest that there was something more. Something his friend wasn't sure he wanted to say.  
  
"What else, son? Something else is troubling you."  
  
He watched as Templeton straightened, looking off into space. For a moment, Magill expected another rush of words, confusion, anger.  
  
"No, Father. There's nothing more." He smiled, mechanically, and said he was tired. Magill watched as he headed back to his rooms.  
  
There was definitely something else going on.


	84. Chapter 84

"Do you want to talk about Randy, Templeton? Sometimes, it helps to..."  
  
"What? No...no, not...not now...I'm sorry, Father, but I...there's something..." Templeton frowned, obviously distracted.  
  
Magill frowned. Since the initial outburst two days before, he had not been able to get Randy into the conversation. In a way, he could understand it. Templeton had been deluged with memories, pieces of his life hitting him left and right. It had kept him in a turmoil and Magill exhausted trying to answer his questions. And yet, the biggest barrier to his recovery and reunion with the team was Randy. At some point, Templeton would have to face his grief.  
  
And so would the rest of the team.  
  
"Father..."  
  
"Yes, Templeton?"  
  
"Have you ever been bothered by...ghosts?"  
  
"Ghosts?"  
  
Templeton sighed. "These memories...they're like ghosts. I see them, but they're not real. Yet they are. It was like this before. When I first went back with the guys. It just...so many pictures but no meaning to them. It's different than the kids from the orphanage. Those I really remember. I can...feel them. Damn..."  
  
Magill let the profanity slip. The frustration was clear as day. The priest could feel it, himself. While he was happy Templeton had "joined" with his childhood again, he was puzzled why the same thing wasn't happening with Colonel Smith and the others.  
  
"There was another priest...wasn't there? I remember another priest..."  
  
"Yes, Templeton. Father O'Malley was at the orphanage the last couple of years you were there." Magill was getting used to the sudden changes in subject; over the past four days it had become almost routine. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"He gave me something...and there was some...problem...about a nun..."  
  
Magill sighed. Yet another memory Templeton was not going to want. Well, maybe he could soften it a bit for him. "Her name was Leslie, Templeton..."  
  
*****  
  
"I don't think we can wait much longer. He's made enough progress for us to proceed."  
  
"Hmm, maybe. He's still fighting Smith. I don't like that. Maybe he's not ready to go back yet."  
  
"And maybe it's time to quit babying him along." The Preacher almost stepped back from the look he received. Holding out his hands, placating, he continued. "Okay, what I meant was, maybe he's going to keep fighting the memories until he has no choice, until he has to deal with Smith and the others one on one."  
  
"That didn't work before."  
  
"That was before the priest got hold of him. Things are different now. Besides, Stockwell isn't going to wait much longer. He's going to want me back in Langley, with an explanation of what happened with the priest."  
  
The other man sat for several minutes. He knew the Preacher was right; they were running out of time. He also thought he might be right about Smith. The operative word being "might". What if Peck really wasn't ready yet?  
  
"All right. Today, go ahead and talk to Smith. And Magill. If Smith doesn't blow everything to hell, set up a meeting between him and the lieutenant for tomorrow. When I see how that goes, then I'll decide about the General."  
  
The Preacher was satisfied. The sooner this whole charade was over, the better he'd like it. He had never been good at waiting; it was time for him to get to doing what he did best. Cleaning up messes.  
  
*****  
  
Kurt threw down the cards in disgust and stood up. Shaking his head, he stalked into the kitchen, grabbing a can of pop from the fridge. Grimacing at the sweetness, he cursed again at Smith's sudden paranoia about having anything harder in the place.  
  
Daryl stayed at the table, staring blankly at his hand. They had played so many hands of cards he felt like a casino. He couldn't even say for sure what they were currently playing - poker, gin rummy, hearts. Take your pick. Sighing, he let the cards drop to the table and watched Kurt forcing down the pop.  
  
Murdock finished his play and casually reached over to pick up Kurt's hand. Frowning, he rearranged the cards before laying down two and dealing two new ones. He frowned again before placing the hand carefully on the table, face down, and reaching for Daryl's. He mouthed something before laying that hand down, again, face down, and once again picking up his own. He shook his head disgustedly and dealt himself three new cards.  
  
BA was dozing on the couch, the television roaring softly across the room. At least the one channel was now showing a football game. High school, and there was more snow on the screen than California had seen in the last century, but it was better than nothing.  
  
Hannibal was ignoring all of them, his attention on the doorway across the street. Four days now. Four long, boring, tense days. And not a word from Magill. Which was undoubtedly good. At least Face hadn't bolted. Something positive must be happening or Face wouldn't have stayed.  
  
Unless, of course, he'd gotten pissed and killed everyone before sneaking off...  
  
Hannibal was due to relieve Frankie in a few minutes. He wondered if it was even worth it. There hadn't been any strange happenings since that guy paid a visit to the retreat the other night. Since then, Hannibal had seen him going to and from his office up the street; nothing suspicious about him. No other strangers on the block. And no unusual activity in the alley, either. It had been dead quiet since their arrival.  
  
And none of them liked dead quiet.  
  
Hannibal heaved a sigh and lit a cigar before heading for the door. BA opened his eyes long enough to watch him leave. None of the others paid any attention. Kurt was leaning against the kitchen counter, contemplating the surface of the fridge; Daryl had picked up yesterday's paper and was re-reading it. Murdock had just dealt a new round for himself and himself and himself.  
  
Quiet or not, Hannibal was still careful as he crossed the street and headed down the block for the alley entrance. Complacency led to trouble. Always.  
  
He received Frankie's report, short and sweet. Nothing but the neighborhood bum wandering from building to building, as per routine. Nodding, Hannibal told him to head for the local drive-through and take back something for the guys. He'd grab something later. Much later, from the way his belt had tightened up over these days of inactivity...  
  
It was nearly dark when he first saw him. The man from the office. Stepping out of the back of a building that would face the next street. Curious. Even more curious when the man very deliberately walked in his direction. And stopped in front of the dumpster Hannibal had "hidden" behind.  
  
"Colonel Smith? I believe you and I have some business to conduct..."  
  
*****  
  
As expected, Templeton hadn't taken the news about Leslie very well at all. Even after Father Magill had vainly attempted to explain about the "calling", he'd just kept asking why. Why had she said she loved him, then? Why had she left without a word to him? Why had she expected him to just come running when she needed him? Why had he?  
  
Questions Father Magill didn't have all the answers to. He knew Templeton knew more about the actual reunion, if one could call it that, than he did; those memories just hadn't come back yet. It would be interesting to see if he could get them back. Or if he would let them.  
  
Leslie had opened a new train of thought for the priest. He saw the difficulties Templeton had when faced with the less-than-pleasant parts of his history. Not that he blamed him; who wanted to remember pain or hurt? But he shouldn't have that problem with Colonel Smith or the others. He should embrace those memories. And he would, Magill was sure, if it weren't for Randy.  
  
Actually, Randy's ghost.  
  
Templeton was feeling extreme guilt about Randy; not only his death, but the way Templeton had treated him prior to that. To accept and embrace the team now must seem like the ultimate betrayal of Randy and their relationship. And yet, from what both Smith and Templeton had told him about Randy, what the dead man would have wanted most of all was a reconciliation. But right now, Randy was much more real to Templeton than the team.  
  
Perhaps it was time...


	85. Chapter 85

The Preacher wasn't at all surprised by Smith's reaction. Eyes nearly closed, head tilted just a hair, Smith hadn't said a word for almost a full minute. Then he'd smiled, a broad smile, pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and spoke.  
  
"Well, you're good, I'll say that for you. Stockwell's moving up to the top guns, huh?"  
  
He returned Smith's smile. "The General is always on the lookout for good men, Colonel. You should know that."  
  
Smith chuckled. "Yeah, well, he seems to have a knack for it. So, you think we have some business to discuss, huh? Before or after you call in the Ables?"  
  
"If we can conclude our discussion satisfactorily, I won't have to call them in. At all."  
  
That stopped Smith, and the Preacher felt a small surge of pride. It took a lot to catch John "Hannibal" Smith off guard.  
  
Recovering quickly, Smith grabbed a puff from his cigar and smiled again, although the smile had a bit of steel to it this time. "So? I'm listening."  
  
"This might take a while. Shall we move around the corner? There's a very nice little cafe there - quiet, private."  
  
Smith glanced across the alley to Face's window. A light shown through but he hadn't seen any movement for some time. The Preacher watched the quick frown and decided to forestall any objections.  
  
"Colonel, we both know that if the General knew he was here, that you were here - well, we wouldn't be talking. Your lieutenant is perfectly safe. And will remain so. Believe me - he couldn't be safer."  
  
It took another few seconds before he knew Smith understood the implications of the statement. His partner had been right - the colonel's highest priority was the safety of his men. And he was quick.  
  
The two men moved casually down the alley and around the corner, where, as promised, stood a small cafe. Comfortable without being careless, private without being claustrophobic. Smith allowed the Preacher to lead the way to a table toward the back. The waitress stepped over quickly, smiling and handing out coffee. She automatically placed a small pitcher of real cream in front of the Preacher, an action not missed by Smith.  
  
"Come here often?" he grinned.  
  
"Every day, Colonel. A very nice place to conduct whatever business I need to attend to."  
  
The two men sipped their coffee, studying each other while appearing not to.  
  
"So, what does Stockwell want?"  
  
"I think we both know what he wants, Colonel. And we both know he'll get it. It's how he gets it that matters to us."  
  
"So this is an 'us' situation? You have a stake in the team's future?"  
  
"Most definitely, Colonel. I've gone out on a limb - a very long, thin limb - to get to this point. You could say I have as much at stake right now as you and your team do."  
  
"Just cost yourself some bargaining power there, mister."  
  
"You can call me 'Preacher'. And there is no bargaining, Colonel. This is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition."  
  
Smith frowned. Obviously the man didn't like what he was hearing so far. The Preacher moved quickly to reel him back in.  
  
"What I am proposing is a way for you and your team to return to the General's...protection...without repercussions. No problems for you, no problems for the team. No problems for the lieutenant."  
  
"Sounds like so much bullshit there, Preacher." The smile that was not quite a smile again. "We've caused Stockwell a lot of headaches over the last few months. And Fa...my lieutenant even more so. Why should Stockwell welcome us back like prodigal sons?"  
  
"Because if he doesn't, he would find that certain information he thought dead and buried could...resurface. Very quickly."  
  
As expected, that got Smith's attention...  
  
*****  
  
"Templeton, I think it's time that you met with Colonel Smith."  
  
"No. Not yet. I..."  
  
"Templeton..." Magill's voice took on that tone he knew so well. After all these years, it still made him cringe. "You've come as far as you can with me. You know what the truth is, and you've come to terms with it. Except when it comes to Smith and the team. You need to talk to him."  
  
"And say what, Father? Talking is not going to change things. I just don't feel..."  
  
"Templeton, you don't feel anything for them because you won't let yourself. Because you're filling your mind and soul with Randy. And Randy is dead."  
  
"You think I don't know that? What the hell is wrong with you?!"  
  
He stood, aghast. He had never, ever spoken to the old man like that. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn't speak, seeing the pain and hurt in Magill's eyes.  
  
"I...I'm sorry, Father. Really, I'm so sorry...I didn't mean that..."  
  
"Templeton, can you see now why I want you to see Hannibal? Why you have to talk this out with him? Let him know what you're feeling, what you felt, what Randy meant to you? Give him the opportunity to understand? This is tearing you up inside and nothing is going to change that unless and until you share it - with your family."  
  
His tone was softer, but dismissive. "My family..."  
  
"Yes, Templeton. Your family! They were, long before you ever met Randy. And, mistakes or not, they remained your family throughout all of this. Did you ever stop to think about your rescue? Who do you think instigated that? Who was it who ran from this Stockwell, chancing their own deaths? Who was it who followed you across the United States, never giving up, even after those terrible things in California? Who never gave up on getting you back? Who never gave up on you?"  
  
He stared out of the window. Hannibal. He knew that. Hannibal and Murdock and BA. They had taken a lot of chances for him...big chances...  
  
"And who did the same thing after you left them this last time? Who went after you yet again? Even after you shot him?"  
  
He flinched at that. Damn. Randy. Hannibal. It seemed he wasn't much of a friend to any of them...  
  
"Templeton, you don't have to feel guilty about any of the things you've done. It wasn't you. And they realize that. All of them. Even Randy. Otherwise he wouldn't have stayed with you. And Colonel Smith could have walked away, but he didn't. Because he knew, too.  
  
"Don't you understand, Templeton, that that's what families do? Yes, they get angry at each other. Yes, there are misunderstandings. But they never turn their back, especially when a member of the family is in trouble. And none of them did."  
  
"I did."  
  
"No, Templeton, you didn't. You didn't. That wasn't you." Magill sighed, and he knew the priest was losing patience with him.  
  
He wanted, really wanted, to go back with the team. He wanted to feel what he knew he had felt before. Like he belonged with them. Almost. Not quite the way he and Randy had belonged together. But close. It wasn't that easy, though. He couldn't just make himself feel things. All he could feel now was guilt for what he'd done, and, once again the outsider he'd always felt like, a longing to belong.  
  
Maybe that would have to do. For now. Until they decided if they would keep him or not. Until he knew if he really had a chance...  
  
"Okay, Father, you win. I'll talk to him. Set it up." He sighed, resigned and afraid at the same time. He wondered if the priest really knew what was at stake, what he could lose, meeting with Hannibal.  
  
*****  
  
He sat back from the desk, amazed. Half their work was done, and they hadn't had to lift a finger to accomplish it. He shook his head. No wonder the lieutenant had turned out the way he had - with a man like that guiding him. From Magill to Smith - damn. He wanted to smack Peck upside the head for not realizing how lucky he had been, how willingly he had turned his back on that life.  
  
Then he remembered why he'd left them...  
  
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. He wished the Preacher would get back here. He wished even more that he'd been able to convince him to wear a wire. He needed to know if their plan was going to work, now more than ever. If Smith balked...they'd all lose.  
  
He had no doubts Smith would agree to talk with Peck. Hell, he was probably chomping at the bit, wondering what had gone on inside those walls. Just as well he didn't know. If he had heard the anger, the guilt, the doubt coming from his XO, maybe the deal with Stockwell wouldn't sound as enticing. And it would be enticing. If Smith was convinced it could actually work, if the Preacher could make him believe they could pull it off, he would go for it. Hook, line, and sinker.  
  
It was maddening. So much at stake, so much riding on a stranger's ability to persuade. He worried, despite the fact he had great faith in his new partner. He wasn't a stranger to the Preacher's reputation. It was almost like a giant club, a fraternity of assassins, con artists, magicians...all doing dirty jobs so others' hands would stay lily-white. Building up the reputations of the people they worked for, making those people powerful and dangerous, not only because of what they knew, but because of whom they employed. Who they controlled.  
  
But those powerful, dangerous people rarely realized who was actually in control. A lesson Stockwell was learning the hard way. He smiled, bitterly.  
  
He heard the signal rapped on the door. A moment later, the Preacher sat down beside him, slightly breathless. A satisfied smile.  
  
"Good news. He's in."  
  
He smiled back. "Better news. Magill has already convinced Peck to meet with him."  
  
The Preacher stared back at him; seconds later his smile grew into a grin. And then faded.  
  
"Can Smith do it?"  
  
"Yeah. Peck is ready. He won't want to go back to Langley, but he wants to be back with the team. Badly. He'll do whatever Smith tells him to."  
  
"That's not exactly what you wanted."  
  
"No one gets everything they want. But it's close enough. He'll put forth the effort. And, like you said, he's dealt with the priest this time. I think it's time to give Stockwell a wake-up call." He relit his cigarette, blowing out the stale smoke before inhaling, deep. "But I want to deal with him myself. You just call him."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Yeah. I want this." His voice hardened for a moment before turning light. "Besides, it gets you off the hook - a little."  
  
They grinned at each other like schoolboys planning a panty-raid. The Preacher picked up the phone, dialed.  
  
"General? Yes, something has definitely happened. I have someone here who'd like to speak with you."  
  
He took the phone from the Preacher, a devilish grin forming.  
  
"Hello, Stockwell. This is Lazarus..."


	86. Chapter 86

The nightmare was vivid and real and horrible. He woke, sweating and shaky, nervously glancing around the semi-darkness of the room. It took several minutes before his heart slowed to a near-normal rate. He didn't want to even think about the dream, but that didn't matter. The images still swirled in the air around him.  
  
Hannibal, in an animalistic rage, attacking Randy, battering his face, hacking at his throat, ripping out his heart...BA and Murdock standing passively by, watching...Stockwell and Barish, laughing in the corner...and then Hannibal turned on Face...  
  
He pushed the light blanket away and stood, leaning heavily on the night table. He really needed a drink. Really needed it.  
  
He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. He pulled on jeans and sweatshirt, shoving bare feet into his shoes. Once more glanced apprehensively around the room.  
  
He had to get out of here.  
  
*****  
  
In the apartment facing the retreat, no one was sleeping. They lie on their beds, or sat on the couch, or wandered aimlessly about the apartment. All of them keyed up after listening to Hannibal explain the Preacher's proposal. And his acceptance of it.  
  
They were also thinking about Hannibal's meeting with Face the next day. The priest's call to the apartment had taken them all by surprise. Hannibal was quite sure the Preacher had been aware of the status inside the retreat; otherwise, their meeting would not have taken place when it did. Perversely, realizing the Preacher knew things he didn't made Hannibal have more confidence in his promises.  
  
Daryl and Kurt were discussing things quietly between them. They had known the deal was coming, what it entailed. Had known they were not included in it, and did not want to be. Their safety from Stockwell was an issue Hannibal had tried to discuss with the Preacher, but had only been told it was taken care of. He was not to know the details. Period.  
  
Kurt and Daryl did know. Daryl hadn't been happy about it, but saw the sense of it. A carefully constructed set of lies; a very cleverly forged directive which was purportedly sent to a certain lieutenant, in the employ of a certain general, to assassinate a certain gun runner in Mexico. The document would be sent to the progeny of said gun runner in the event anything happened to either former Able. One thing Stockwell could not afford was a war with Mick's powerful and extensive family. Not now, at any rate. He would undoubtedly win, in the long run, but it would definitely be a very long run, and costly.  
  
Two Ables were certainly not worth the trouble.  
  
*****  
  
They had packed up the last of the equipment hours before. He wasn't happy about it, but knew they couldn't stay there. Couldn't go to the old apartment, either. Until that first piece of evidence got to Stockwell, proving they had the power to destroy him, their lives weren't worth a plug nickel. Each had gone their own way after disposing of the equipment. The Preacher had taken the three imprisoned Ables; they would return with him to Langley once the way was clear. Not knowing what was going on, they obviously were not happy, but knew better than to argue or remonstrate with this particular man. They remained subdued, thinking with dread of reporting back to the General.  
  
He, himself, had not gone far. Without the aid of the listening devices, he was cut off from everything happening within the retreat. He had known that would have to be, and had made plans for it. It didn't really matter now, anyway; all he needed to do was make sure Smith and Peck made nice with each other the next day.  
  
He stood in the doorway, relaxing. He would have liked a cigarette, but he knew the windows of a certain apartment, nearly directly above him, were open. No way he would alert the men above that someone was down here. Discovery by Smith now could queer everything. Admittedly, standing in the very doorway of their building was not exactly circumspect, but he felt the need for a little adrenaline. It was going to be a long, boring night.  
  
*****  
  
He crept down the hall, stopping frequently, listening, looking. Especially in back of him. Stupid, silly, immature - but he couldn't get rid of the feeling someone was creeping up behind him.  
  
Someone, hell.  
  
Hannibal.  
  
He licked his lips for what seemed the thousandth time. He shouldn't be doing this, he really shouldn't. Magill wouldn't like it. But he'd made no promises about staying. And he would be back for the meeting with Hannibal. He just had to get out of here for a little while. Just a little while. Have a quick drink and come right back.  
  
Just so he could relax. Get some sleep.  
  
Be ready for Smith this time.  
  
*****  
  
Murdock was watching the front window again. He didn't like the idea that no one was watching the alley any more, but Hannibal seemed confident it was no longer necessary. Hannibal didn't think they really needed to watch the building at all, but kept someone at the window - just in case.  
  
Fortuitous.  
  
"Hannibal, we got movement..."  
  
*****  
  
He stared in consternation as the door across the street slid open and the shadow of a man stepped out. A moment later, the same shadow was hurrying down the street.  
  
"Fucking hell!"  
  
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, keeping to the shadows himself. He knew Smith's men would be down any second.  
  
Regular damn parade. Stockwell would love it...  
  
*****  
  
He crept down the street, keeping to the shadows, and turned the corner with noticeable relief. He stopped, listening. Nothing. He moved on.  
  
He wasn't familiar with the area, but there were few places in LA that didn't have a bar of some kind close by. The further he moved away from the retreat, the more confident he felt. The more energetic. The more clearly he could think.  
  
He was stopped at an intersection, looking up and down the streets for some sign of a night life when he heard it. Just a soft scuffle from somewhere far behind him. He turned casually, as if looking down the street, but looking carefully in the direction of the sound.  
  
Smith?  
  
He flashed back to the nightmare. Stupid. Hannibal would never...no, just stupid. But he felt the hair on the back of his neck rising, just the same.  
  
He saw nothing behind him. Nothing at all. Didn't matter. The feeling remained. He quickly moved across the street, keeping his pace brisk as he moved down the block. A few moments later he saw what he was looking for.  
  
He pushed open the door, met with loud music from the jukebox, smoke, and the smell of hot bodies and alcohol.  
  
Thank God...  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal, Murdock and BA were down the stairs and out the door within moments. Hannibal had insisted that the others wait in the apartment. He didn't need to give Stockwell a damn procession to follow. BA and Hannibal hurried down one side of the street; Murdock scurried across to the other side.  
  
They caught sight of him when they turned the corner. He was moving cautiously, staying hidden as much as possible. There was something off about the movements, more than normal caution, but Hannibal couldn't figure out what.  
  
*****  
  
He knew they were behind him, following quietly. He also realized that they thought they were following Peck. He almost chuckled at that. If he weren't so concerned about where Peck was heading, it would be comical.  
  
Well, he'd just have to make sure they didn't lose him. He would lead them right to the lieutenant.  
  
*****  
  
He sat at the far end of the bar, where he could watch the door but be gone out the back before being spotted himself. The bartender set the beer down in front of him, commented about not having seen him before, and moved on to the next customer. It was busy, and loud, and he was glad. No one would notice if he made a quick exit. No one would remember him if asked.  
  
Anonymous.  
  
It felt good. Again.  
  
*****  
  
He watched, unsettled, as his quarry entered the bar. He didn't like this. Peck shouldn't have left the retreat at all, not according to all they had heard. And he definitely shouldn't be going here.  
  
He moved quickly across the street, hustling to cross behind a passing car. He knew his followers were close; he didn't want to lose them, but he didn't want them to see they had the wrong man, either. He managed to enter the bar only moments after Peck; luckily, there were enough patrons milling around outside that he could follow him closely without being noticed. Crowds made it easy.  
  
He spotted him almost immediately, moving purposefully toward the far end of the bar, where he would settle, watching the front door. He moved to the opposite side of the room, keeping an eye on him, making sure he wasn't noticed himself. Good. Peck had found a seat at the bar, was ordering, eyes front.  
  
Now, all he had to do was make his escape without being seen. Smith would take care of the rest.  
  
*****  
  
Hannibal watched with dread as Face headed into the bar. Beside him, BA snorted in disgust.  
  
"Take it easy, BA. He's not going to get drunk."  
  
"Yeah, an' my mama swears on Sundays..."  
  
Hannibal glanced at BA. It was just as well if he was a little riled. If Face was regressing, they would need the extra adrenaline.  
  
"He's not going to get drunk because we are going to make sure he doesn't."  
  
BA looked only slightly appeased. "Why'd he hafta go in there for anyway?"  
  
"I don't know, BA. From everything Magill said, he was really making progress. Then again, he didn't really want to meet with me today." Hannibal sighed. Face had been complicated enough before, but at least he was predictable. Now, predictions were impossible.  
  
*****  
  
The first sip was slow, almost tentative. The next longer, fully enjoyed. This was what he had needed. This would strip his mind of that nightmare, of the confusion, of all the things he'd had thrown at him over the past few days.  
  
This would let him just...be.  
  
Still keeping an eye on the front door, he managed to glance around at the people surrounding him. Laughing, talking, drinking, smoking. Enjoying. Not a care in the world. Maybe it wasn't as elegant as the places he would normally have gone, but that didn't matter. This was what he missed - the people, the atmosphere, being part of the crowd even when he wasn't.  
  
He knew the team never understood how he could spend so much time pretending to be someone else, scamming his way into situations that he had no right to even dream of. But it was worth it to him, because once he'd talked his way into those things, he belonged. No one expected anything more of him than to be, well, who he said he was. And it was so easy for him to be someone else.  
  
After all, he had always been someone else.  
  
*****  
  
"Now what, Colonel?"  
  
Murdock's tone of voice was calm, almost monotone. Hannibal didn't like that. Murdock should have been angry, or anxious, or even eager. Definitely not calm.  
  
"We're going to go get him out of there. BA, you head up that way," he pointed up the street. "Murdock, you move down there, where we came from. And stay out of sight. If he comes out alone, take him. If I can talk him in to coming with me, keep your distance. I don't know what he might do if he thought I was springing a trap."  
  
"You ain't goin in the front door this time, are you, Hannibal?" BA clearly thought this was not the time for a frontal assault.  
  
"No, BA, this time I'm going in the back door. If he decides to take a hike, I'll make sure he comes your way." He straightened his shoulders and looked at the two remaining members of his team. "Remember what you're up against, but remember who he is, okay, guys?"  
  
BA and Murdock nodded and moved off to their positions. Hannibal slumped ever so slightly.  
  
He was getting too old for this kind of shit...


	87. Chapter 87

He sensed, rather than saw, Hannibal. A prickling on his skin. Seconds later, he caught the scent of his cigar wafting through the crowd.  
  
"Hello, Face."  
  
He didn't turn around. Forced himself to relax, took a casual sip of his beer - the second, or third?  
  
Okay.  
  
"Hello, Hannibal."  
  
Good boy. Voice firm, low, calm.  
  
"Didn't expect to find you here." As if Hannibal had made a habit of dropping in himself.  
  
"I like the ambience."  
  
Hannibal moved in on the chair just vacated beside him. Nodded at the bartender, who obligingly set a beer down in front of him. Hannibal took a small sip, puffed on his cigar, and grinned at his lieutenant.  
  
"I could get to like this place. How about you?"  
  
"I already like it, Colonel. A lot."  
  
"Maybe a little too much?"  
  
There was just a hint of reprimand in the voice. Again, he felt the pricking over his skin. Images of a knife slashing through skin swept through his mind. He glanced around, instinctively looking for the others, felt himself relax when he realized Smith was alone.  
  
All alone.  
  
"I'm fine, Colonel. I like it here. I'm staying."  
  
"You really think that's a good idea, all things considered?" Hannibal took another small sip of his own beer. "I was thinking we could take a walk, clear our heads a little. What do you say?"  
  
He took a deep swallow from his glass. The pricking would not go away. Stupid. It was just a damn dream. It didn't take a genius to figure out the meaning behind it.  
  
Maybe they wouldn't have to talk. Maybe they would just walk. Maybe Hannibal was willing to wait until tomorrow to talk.  
  
"Face?"  
  
Shit. Hannibal would grab this chance. He would never hold back if opportunity allowed him to charge.  
  
"I said, I like it here."  
  
He heard Hannibal shift on the chair. He knew Hannibal wasn't used to Face directly opposing him, any more than Face was used to doing it. But he did not want to leave the bar - not with Hannibal.  
  
The bartender reappeared, set two more beers down in front of them. He looked up, surprised. He hadn't ordered anything.  
  
"My treat, Lieutenant." Hannibal grinned over at him, but the grin was cold. Like the one he used on the bad guys.  
  
Exactly like that.  
  
"I can buy my own drinks, Colonel."  
  
"You don't have enough money. Not for the number of drinks you want. And definitely not enough to outlast me. I can wait as long as you can stall, Face. I got all night."  
  
"What about our deal?"  
  
"Deal?" Hannibal sipped his beer. "You mean, if you want to leave, I let you? That's still on. But is that what this is? Your bon voyage party? You hitting the road when you're done here?"  
  
"I...I don't know. Maybe."  
  
"You tell Father Magill that?"  
  
No, of course he hadn't. Hannibal knew that. Just as he knew Face would never just walk out without telling the priest. He took another deep swallow of his beer, tasted the bitterness...  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hannibal glance at his watch.  
  
"Going to be last call pretty soon. Got any plans for then?"  
  
"No." He glanced around the bar once more. Still no sign of BA or Murdock. Had Hannibal really come here alone? Was he willing to trust Face that much? Maybe...  
  
Or maybe they were just lying in wait for him outside.  
  
Maybe he was cut off...  
  
"Where are the rest?"  
  
"Waiting at our apartment. Why? Would you like to see them?"  
  
"No."  
  
Hannibal could lie as well as he could. Didn't mean anything.  
  
"Last call, gents! Last call!"  
  
He stared at his glass. This was it. No more stalling. And nowhere else to go.  
  
Maybe they wouldn't have to talk. Maybe they would just walk.  
  
Maybe the sky would fall.  
  
He sighed, pushed his glass slowly away and stood up from the bar. He finally looked directly at Hannibal.  
  
"Okay, Hannibal," his voice low, soft, resigned. "Let's walk..."  
  
*****  
  
They walked out of the bar. Hannibal knew Murdock and BA were watching, out of sight. He assumed - no, he knew - they would be extremely careful not to be seen. Face was no dummy. And, alcohol or not, he would be watching for them. Hannibal hadn't missed those searching looks in the bar.  
  
They strolled down the street, occasionally jostled by the crowds exiting other bars, restaurants, clubs. LA never slept; everyone had some place else they could go, something else they could do until the sun climbed over the tops of the buildings. The two of them had nowhere to go, much to do.  
  
Hannibal figured Face hadn't had too much to drink; he hadn't had time. A couple beers, maybe. Nothing in his walk would indicate he'd had anything. That was good. Just enough to relax him, not enough to cloud his thinking. Hannibal would be able to find an opening, start the talk, and know that his lieutenant could digest it.  
  
It also meant his lieutenant could turn on him unhindered.  
  
They must have walked for nearly thirty minutes without saying a word. Gradually, they moved away from the business district, into an area of small shops mixed with equally small houses. Very few people were on the street here, and traffic on the roadway slowed to nearly nothing.  
  
"Father Magill's been helpful, then?"  
  
For a few minutes, Face didn't answer, and Hannibal was concerned he had been shut out.  
  
"You could say that, yeah."  
  
"I guess there are still a few things that need clearing up, though, huh?"  
  
Face gave a bitter chuckle. "You could say that, too."  
  
"I'm sorry about Randy, Face. Not just...well, I'm sorry about all of it."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I've had time to think things over, you know. And I talked to Randy, back at that cabin."  
  
Face glanced over at him, then returned his look to the sidewalk ahead of them. Still he said nothing.  
  
"He wasn't a bad person. Not what I had thought. Not often I'm wrong about someone, but I was wrong about Randy. And I was wrong about how we dealt with your friendship with him."  
  
Face snorted. "You think?"  
  
Hannibal frowned. He didn't want to get into an argument, but he could understand Face's anger.  
  
"Yeah, about time, huh? I made a lot of mistakes, Face, I freely admit that. But I've learned from them. It won't happen again."  
  
Face stopped abruptly, stared off into the distance. Although his responses, or lack of them, hadn't been encouraging, at least Face hadn't tried to ditch him. Hannibal decided to press his luck.  
  
"Things will be different now, Face. With BA and Murdock, too. We all had a chance to get to know Randy, and find out some of the things you two went through. We found out we didn't have to be jealous of him any more."  
  
"Jealous?" Face's voice was incredulous. "You were jealous?"  
  
Hannibal chuckled. Of course, Face would never have thought of that.  
  
"Hell, yes. I guess it had never occurred to any of us that you could have a life completely outside the team, that you could have real friendships outside of ours. Never occurred to us that you didn't need us."  
  
Face was openly staring at him now, the emotions flickering through his eyes so fast Hannibal couldn't keep up with them.  
  
"We kept shutting you off when you'd bring up Randy because we didn't want to be reminded of that. We didn't want to be told that we weren't necessary to your life. And I think we were also afraid that you would decide to leave us and go looking for him. We were stupid."  
  
"But, I did leave you."  
  
"Yeah, and that was our fault. Our plan backfired, big time. If we had accepted Randy in the first place, maybe you wouldn't have felt that need. Instead, maybe you would have come clean and let us help you, help Randy.  
  
"And maybe Randy would still be alive..."  
  
Hannibal knew he was taking a big chance, saying that. But he knew Face had to have thought about that.  
  
"No, that wasn't your fault, Hannibal. If I hadn't turned on him, if I hadn't screwed up, we never would have had to go to Mexico to begin with. I turned on him, and he died because of it."  
  
"Not true, Muchacho."  
  
Face looked up sharply, as both Murdock and BA stepped slowly out of the shadows. Hannibal was afraid he would take off, but instead he just shook his head.  
  
"I should have known." There was no anger in his voice, just resignation.  
  
Murdock smiled. "Randy did what he wanted to do, Face. He could've asked any of us for help, but he didn't. He wanted to play a lone hand, and he knew better than anyone what his chances were."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Murdock's right, Face, and you know it." Hannibal's voice was firm but gentle. "We all made mistakes, all of us, including Randy. We could spend the rest of our lives thinking 'what if', but it wouldn't change the fact that Randy made his own decisions. He always did."  
  
"So, you ready to come back wi' us now, Face?"  
  
Hannibal sighed. Leave it to BA to forge ahead like a bull in a china shop. But the look of surprise Face gave them surprised Hannibal.  
  
"You still want me back, BA? After all this..."  
  
"Geez, Face, how dumb are you? Why you think we kep after you to begin with?" BA shook his head in disgust. "We was just waitin for you to get done here."  
  
"But, Hannibal and I made a deal. If I wanted to leave..." He looked suspiciously at Hannibal. "You had your fingers crossed, didn't you?" Half angry, half amused.  
  
Hannibal just grinned as Face shook his head.  
  
"C'mon, Face, let's go home..."


	88. Chapter 88

They stayed for another two days. Hannibal hadn't said anything to Face about the deal he'd made with the Preacher. He wanted to give him time, time to get used to them again, time to get used to himself again. And time to finish working through his grief for Randy.  
  
BA didn't buy it.  
  
"You afraid he'll leave again, 'stead of comin with us."  
  
As usual, BA hit the nail on the head. Hannibal didn't want to lose Face again, and he worried that if he did leave, it might queer the deal with Stockwell. He had three other men to worry about, after all. And Stockwell was just the kind of man who would grab any straw to twist the deal into something more beneficial for him.  
  
And, quite frankly, he didn't think Face would make it on his own. Face was the kind of person who needed someone to hold him steady. He would've been angered to hear that, but it was true. Leave Face on his own and he did stupid things, like producing foreign films. Hannibal hadn't let Face out of his sight for long after that one. The kid was worse than Murdock, really. Murdock always knew when he was fantasizing. Face really believed himself. That's what made him so good at what he did.  
  
But he needed someone to make sure he came back to reality. Someone like Hannibal. Like Randy. If he left now, he'd have no one and no way in hell was Hannibal going to let that happen.  
  
He just hadn't figured out how to stop it yet.  
  
*****  
  
He called the number, waited for it to be picked up. He glanced idly up and down the street, not expecting to see anyone he shouldn't, but keeping his guard up, just in case. Stockwell would have received the package by now. He smiled. He would have liked to have seen the look on his face when Stockwell realized Randy's legacy had, indeed, lived on.  
  
Now he had only to complete the transaction. The team would be returned, intact, to Langley. The two former Ables would be on a plane to wherever they chose to go, free and clear. The Preacher was assured of his place in Stockwell's organization, credited with bringing the various factions together. Quite a coup for him, actually. Stockwell would never guess how much of his involvement had been voluntary.  
  
He smiled again. The Reluctant Hero.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hello, General. Lazarus here. I take it you got my package?"  
  
"It arrived early this morning."  
  
"And...?"  
  
"And the A-Team will be welcomed back with open arms, including Peck. Ables 9 and 12 are officially detached from the organization, and will not be bothered in the future."  
  
"And..."  
  
He heard Stockwell sigh over the line. He chuckled silently.  
  
"And your Swiss bank account has received a hefty deposit."  
  
"I'll double-check that later. I'm sure you won't be offended."  
  
"It's all there, Lazarus."  
  
"Well, I guess our business is concluded for now, General."  
  
"One last thing, if you don't mind."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Which one? Which one of you is Lazarus?"  
  
He smiled. Poor old Stockwell.  
  
He kept smiling as he hung up the phone and walked down the street.  
  
*****  
  
In the end, Hannibal didn't have to tell Face anything about the Preacher.  
  
Face and Murdock were sitting in the garden, feeding the pigeons. Face thought them dirty and disease-ridden, but Murdock liked them, and Face had fallen almost naturally into following Murdock's lead in these things.  
  
Throwing the last of the seed onto the ground, Face sighed. Murdock pretended not to notice, but he knew something was on his friend's mind. Just as he knew it would take a while before he decided to speak about it. For someone who could talk so fast and furious during a scam, Face was remarkably recalcitrant to discuss...difficulties.  
  
"You're going back to Langley, aren't you?"  
  
Whoo boy, why did he have to bring that up!? Murdock looked around, almost desperately hoping Hannibal was nearby. No such luck.  
  
"Aren't you?"  
  
"Well, uh, yeah, we are, Face. It was kinda, well, sort of a deal we worked out with Stockwell."  
  
"A deal? What kind of deal?"  
  
Murdock sighed. Toyed with the zipper of his jacket. Adjusted his hat.  
  
"Murdock..."  
  
"Well, it's kinda like, we go back to Stockwell, and we get to work out our pardons...like nothing happened."  
  
"Just like that?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Like nothing happened? That doesn't sound like Stockwell."  
  
"Well, he didn't really have a choice, y'see..."  
  
"No, I don't see, Murdock. Why didn't he have a choice?"  
  
"Because someone found those files and threatened him with them."  
  
"Files? Randy's files? Who? Who found them?"  
  
Murdock stared at Face, alarmed. Face was upset - he was livid.  
  
"I don't know exactly, Face. Some guy talked to Hannibal, and..."  
  
"What guy?"  
  
"I don't know. Hannibal said he called himself the Preacher. That's all I know. And he had the files, or had access to them, or something like that. But anyway, he said he would work out a deal so we could all go back to Langley and it would be like nothing happened and..."  
  
"We would all go back?"  
  
Man, Face could speak so soft when he was really, really angry...  
  
"Well, yeah..."  
  
"And of course, no one thought to ask me if I wanted to go back."  
  
"Face, we don't have much choice. Hannibal had pretty much figured we'd have to go back, anyway. When this guy came up with this plan, it just made it easier. And...and safer..."  
  
"Safer?"  
  
"Geez, Face, do you have to keep repeating everything I say? Yeah, safer!" Murdock was starting to get angry, now. Face could be so deliberately blind..."The only way to make sure that everyone, including you, keeps breathing is to go back. The only way. Those files just make sure we can do it under the original agreement."  
  
"And if I decide I don't want to go back? What happens to the deal, then?"  
  
"I don't know. You were part of it. Maybe Stockwell would let you go, maybe he wouldn't. But Hannibal figured you would come back with us." Murdock looked straight at Face, ignoring the smoldering eyes. "Face, you gotta come back with us. We're a team. We're family. It's just not the same when you're not there with us."  
  
Face turned away, stared at the pigeons.  
  
"Face...please. Come with us, work out the pardons. Then we'll all be free and clear, and we can do whatever we want. All of us. And if you want to leave then, no one will try to stop you."  
  
"I've heard that before, Murdock."  
  
"Face, c'mon. If not for yourself, then think about Frankie. Okay? He deserves to get his life back more than any of us. If we don't go through with this deal, he's stuck. You really want to put him through what we've had for the last fifteen years?"  
  
For a moment, Face said nothing. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed.  
  
"Okay, Murdock. Okay. But when we get to Langley, Stockwell and I are going to come to an understanding of our own."  
  
"Face, you won't..."  
  
"Don't worry, Murdock. Stockwell will walk away. But he and I are definitely going to have a little chat..."  
  
*****  
  
"Think he'll show up?"  
  
"He said he would."  
  
The two men stared out at the ocean, waves rolling in, slapping against the sand. The wind was high, and it carried a distinct chill.  
  
"You're sure you want to do this? I mean, it's not exactly what we had in mind."  
  
The second man sighed, drew a line in the sand with his toe. "No, I'm not sure. But what else do we know? At least this way, we know what to expect...sort of."  
  
"Yeah, like he's predictable..."  
  
They stood silently for several more minutes. They had left the team two days earlier, after delivering them to the private airfield. They were still somewhat awestruck that they had been allowed to leave without incident. And now they waited on the beach for their 'benefactor'.  
  
Almost simultaneously, they became aware of another man, strolling toward them across the sand.  
  
"Evening, boys. Great waves, huh?"  
  
It took a moment before they recognized him.  
  
"Well, shall we head out? I've got a very nice place for us to stay. The owners are out of town for a few months and..."  
  
*****  
  
"Gentlemen. Welcome home."  
  
The ironic tone was not lost on Hannibal or the others. He turned, watching Stockwell saunter into the living room, followed closely by Carla. He mentally shook his head, exasperated. He'd warned Stockwell against coming so soon. Face wasn't ready for that yet. But Stockwell, as always, would do things his way. So be it. He stepped to one side.  
  
"Well, Lieutenant, I understand you wanted to have a little 'chat' with me. I..."  
  
Face stepped back, shaking out his fist. A gaggle of Ables rushed in, guns drawn. Carla knelt down, only to have her helping hand shoved impatiently away. Stockwell regained his feet, glaring at the team. BA, Murdock and Frankie had moved protectively around Face, while Hannibal laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I think we have an understanding, for the time being, General, at least until I see how things work out. But rest assured, we will have our chat. Sometime soon." Face gently shook off Hannibal's hand and strolled out of the room. One Able stood in his way, but after a look at the lieutenant's face, moved quickly to the side.  
  
Hannibal looked at Stockwell, who was delicately wiping the blood from his lip with a silk handkerchief. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket and looked directly back at Hannibal.  
  
"I trust this will not be a reoccurring event, Colonel, and that you will keep your men in line, as per our agreement."  
  
"Hey, I told you to back off for a while, General."  
  
"Colonel..." There was a warning tone to the voice. Hannibal didn't like it, but he understood.  
  
"We'll stick to the agreement, Stockwell. Just make sure you do."  
  
"Of course, Colonel. Of course..."  
  
*****  
  
He flopped down on the sofa, popping the top off the beer, waiting for his partners to finish unloading. It had been a long trip, but a satisfactory one. Any trip they returned from, really, was satisfactory, but this one had added handsomely to their bank accounts. And a nasty little drug lord was safely planted where he wouldn't be found for some time.  
  
All in all, a very good trip.  
  
He heard Kurt and Daryl coming in, and frowned, slightly. He was a little unhappy about their performance, but then, he'd known their ground rules going in. Still, he was getting a little tired of being the only one doing the wet work. Oh, well. He wasn't worried about their using lethal force if absolutely necessary, to defend him or themselves. They'd already proven they would do that much. Still...  
  
He frowned deeper when Kurt stopped by the secure phone. He looked at it for the first time himself, and noticed the message light blinking.  
  
Damn.  
  
Kurt looked at him, questioning. He shook his head and shoved up from the couch. He preferred taking these messages himself.  
  
Kurt and Daryl moved toward their rooms, obviously looking forward to showers and a hot, American meal. He'd send out for a couple extra-large pizzas when he got done here. They'd stay in tonight, relaxing. Maybe bring in a couple girls. He liked to pamper his men after a long job. A little thing, but it helped keep them loyal.  
  
He picked up the phone, dialed in the code, and listened. Nothing extraordinary, just the usual update. But there was something...  
  
He knew that name from somewhere.  
  
Somewhere on a personal level...  
  
Bancroft...


End file.
